


Top Secret

by MoonRiver



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Dating, Desk Sex, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Massage, Mycroft Feels, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Parental Lestrade, Porn With Plot, Pre-A Study in Pink, Prequel, References to Addiction, References to Drugs, Rimming, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:39:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 40,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonRiver/pseuds/MoonRiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes lives a life of confidentiality and power. Greg Lestrade chases murderers for a living. Naturally, they're perfect for each other.</p><p>A Mystrade 30 Day OTP challenge!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Well I've finally done it. I've been wanting to write a Mystrade OTP challenge forever, and I am finally ready to. This fic is technically a prequel to my other OTP challenge, Not Just Biology, but I promise you if you haven't ready that story you won't be lost. This takes place about a year before "A Study In Pink", which puts this at 2.5 years before Not Just Biology. This is for all the readers of that story who have asked for more Mystrade! Here it is! I hope you enjoy it! I'm super excited about starting an new 30 Day challenge!

_February 2009_

As the clock struck midnight Greg let out a shaky sigh and took another sip of his coffee. Twelve hours of work, and he still had a stack of paperwork to shift through on his desk. His latest case left him so exhausted that he developed a tremor in his hand and dots were forming in his eyes. He needed sleep. He needed food. He needed an escape.

“Sherlock bloody Holmes,” he muttered, “you’re going to be the death of me.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk with you about.”

Greg’s heart leapt to his throat at all-too familiar voice of Mycroft Holmes. The man, the so-called _minor government official_ , scared the shit out of him. Maybe it was all those times of being kidnapped and interrogated in abandoned warehouses, maybe it was the way Sherlock magically had access to places he could never dream of getting into, or maybe it was simply those _eyes_. One look from that man was enough to send a nation crashing to its knees.

His chest tightened as he looked up, daring to meet those eyes, and he was shocked to see how exhausted they looked.

“Something on your mind, Mr Holmes?” He asked, turning back to his work.

He hated thinking that Mycroft knew how much he intimidated him.

“I actually wanted to thank you, Detective Inspector-"

Greg waved away the formality.

“Please, we’ve done this enough times. It’s Greg.” He stopped and lifted his eyes up carefully.

A rush of triumph went through him as he realised how unsettled Mycroft was by the interruption, and it took the elder Holmes a moment to compose himself.

“Right,” Mycroft breathed. He leaned against his umbrella for support as he continued. “Well, Gregory, I wanted to offer my sincere thanks. You saved my brother’s life and gave him second chances he didn’t deserve.”

A tired smile swept across Greg’s face.

“You don't have to keep thanking me. Sherlock’s smarter than he looks,” Greg admitted. “I believe that with the right guidance he can go far. He needs someone to look up to, a mentor.”

“And now he has one.”

Mycroft took a step closer, and suddenly the room seemed very hot.

“Yes, he does,” Mycroft whispered.

Silence fell between them.

Then Greg noticed the familiar smell of lo mein.

“Is that Chinese?” He asked, his eyes lighting up at the thought of food.

“Oh,” Mycroft said, presenting a plastic bag he had hidden behind his back. “Sherlock tells me you two get Chinese every Friday night. He had these sad puppy dog eyes when he realised you would be stuck doing paperwork all night so I bought him dinner and thought I might drop some by for you.”

He almost laughed at the thought of Sherlock and Mycroft dining over Chinese take-away.

“I’m just glad to hear you two are talking,” Greg admitted. “Are things okay between you two?”

Mycroft offered a casual shrug and let out a long sigh.

“I’m afraid ‘okay’ might never be a word that will describe my relationship with my brother, but for the time being things are at least stable. Sherlock is clean, he has a roof over his head and well, I think he even has a friend.”

“He definitely has a friend,” Greg said, getting to his feet.

He accepted the Chinese food and sat on the edge of the desk as he peeled open the tiny box. After Sherlock’s last stint in rehab Greg offered him the spare room in his flat. The two made for odd flatmates, but he knew what Sherlock really needed was someone to look out for him.

“Thank you for letting him help on cases,” Mycroft said, watching curiously as Greg began stuffing his mouth with noodles. “I think he enjoys it.”

“Oh I know he does,” Greg replied, mouth full. Mycroft looked positively disgusted, but he didn’t care. “He gets to make me look like a fool every day. The way he sees the world- I’ll never understand it. But he’s been a brilliant asset to the team. I could have never solved this case without him. And this is Chinese is gorgeous, thanks. Makes me wish I had some-“

“Wine?”

Greg noticed for the first time a brown paper bag that had been sitting at Mycroft’s feet. As he pulled out a bottle of red wine Greg grinned, and even Mycroft let a small smile slip.

“A token of appreciation,” Mycroft explained.

“Wow,” Greg accepted the wine, admiring the fancy Italian writing he couldn’t understand. He walked over to a cabinet that held some of his personal belongings and pulled out a couple of wine glasses. Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up, impressed, and he teased: “Like you don’t have a stash in your office.”

With a chuckle, Mycroft admitted:

“I have a small collection of wine in my office- and there’s the occasional whiskey or scotch.”

“Nice!”

Greg did the honours of popping open the bottle. He poured Mycroft’s first, then his own, and he didn’t hesitate to down nearly half of it in one sip.

“Christ,” he said, licking his lips. “That might be the best wine I’ve ever had.”

For a few moments he continued eating, nourishing his rumbling stomach and Mycroft watched the floor. Mycroft sipped at his own wine, and Greg considered how odd it was that he was, well, still here.

“Thank you, really,” Greg said. “I was starving. Feel free to…sit.”

_Sit. What am I doing?!_

He seemed to have no control of his body as his hand waved toward the sofa stashed against the wall on the other side of his office. Mycroft eyed the blanket and pillow he had out in preparation of yet another night of sleeping at the office, and he realised what the Holmes brother was probably thinking.

“Sherlock’s fine by himself, I trust him. I have a mountain of paperwork, and having at least an hour of sleep before the next shift starts would be lovely.”

When Mycroft hesitated he worried that he lost points by making him aware he let Sherlock stay alone at the flat. Based on the random drug tests he submitted Sherlock to he hadn’t used since the last overdose that put him in rehab, but he knew Mycroft wasn’t as trusting.

“It’s fine, I don’t want you to live handcuffed to my brother.”

Mycroft took a step forward, a very _suggestive_ step forward, and Greg went stiff when he realised what was happening. Suddenly his trousers felt too tight, his palms sweaty, and the noodles that were a lifesaver a moment ago tasted raw now. He felt nauseated, dizzy, and he couldn’t breathe.

“Mycroft,” he whispered, holding his hands up to give himself some space.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. He was officially not breathing, and the hand that wasn’t holding the box of noodles grasped the desk to keep himself from falling over.

They were face to face, and a memory rushed back to him.

_Abandoned warehouse kidnapping, one year ago. On the brink of separation with his wife. All out of sorts. Stressed out. Not thinking. Not breathing. And kissing Mycroft Holmes._

They never talked about it again. That was, apparently, until now.

“Mycroft,” he whispered again, desperately trying to make himself think.

Mycroft took his hand from the desk to hold it tightly, and Greg couldn’t stop the kiss from happening. Mycroft’s lips crashed into his, and he could only stand there, trapped. He let out a quiet whimper as Mycroft pulled away for a moment, only to lean in again, changing angles this time as his hands found Greg’s shoulders.

“Breathe,” Mycroft murmured.

Then his tongue dove in, and Greg could do anything but breathe. All he could do was let Mycroft invade his mouth, and he was almost grateful when they broke apart again.

“Listen-“ he attempted.

_I have no fucking clue what’s happening!_

“Shh,” Mycroft said, placing a finger over his own lips.

“I don’t-"

_Understand! I don’t understand!_

Suddenly Mycroft was sucking at his neck, at that very spot that turned him on oh so much. And suddenly, he didn’t care about understanding. He wanted this.

Mycroft leaned against him as he continued to suck, forming a perfect mark, and Greg finally abandoned the Chinese food, letting the leftovers fall to the floor. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft, holding on for dear life as he tilted back slowly, slowly, until he was pinned to his own desk.

“Mind the notes!” He croaked as some of his precious paperwork went flying.

Ignoring him, Mycroft went for his jaw next, planting a line of kisses as he reached for the buttons of his suit jacket.

“Oh Christ,” Greg breathed.

He felt more than a bit uncomfortable as he was the only one making noise, but judging by the bulge vibrating against his hips, he knew Mycroft was enjoying this just as much.

Whatever _this_ was.

Greg felt like he was in a dream as he helped Mycroft take off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt. As soon as Mycroft had access to his chest those lips danced across his nipples and down, down, down until-

_“Oh!”_

They graced the ever-growing erection hidden beneath only a thin layer of polyester and cotton briefs.

_He’s going to jump me. In my own office. On my own desk. And I might just let him._

He was fully hard now as Mycroft mouthed at the clothed-covered erection, and his breathing went into hysterics when those pale fingers reached for his zipper. Closing his eyes, Greg let his head fall back against the desk and decided to just sit back and take it. His hands roamed his own chest before reaching up to Mycroft, catching strands of his ginger hair. Encouraging him.

Mycroft pulled his cock out just enough to kiss the head and slowly massage the shaft with his hands.

_Oh god. He’s done this before. Probably in another office. Probably in HIS office. With some rich foreign minister. Giving him head, teasing him, making him beg._

The thought gave a whole new take on ‘bringing a nation to its knees’.

He shuddered as Mycroft’s tongue dashed out, experimenting with a few quick licks to the head. A soft purr erupted from the man kneeling in front of him, and Greg’s body tensed up. Those strong hands held onto his thighs, pushing them down while at the same time asking him to relax.

 _“Jesus,”_ he whispered, running a hand over Mycroft’s forehead and back through his hair.

Mycroft was sweating, and the _minor_ government official finally began to loosen his own tie. Greg thought he was never going to think of the word ‘multitasking’ in the same way as he leaned up and watched Mycroft undo the buttons of his shirt, pump his cock, and suck at the head all at the same time.

Leaving the shirt open just enough to let him breathe, Mycroft reached again for Greg’s trousers, opening them enough to expose his balls and cup them in his hands.

_I must look like I’m in a fucking porno. James Bond Gives the Lonely Detective A Good Pounding._

He gasped as Mycroft suddenly took his whole cock in, and he thought that they might not get that far.

“Mycroft!” He pleaded, his voice croaking through the silent room. “Oh _fuck_ , like that! _Yes_.”

He must have sounded desperately needy, but then again how often did people barge in his office and insist on giving him a blow job?

A round of soft grunts escaped him as Mycroft sucked him down and rubbed his balls at the same time. When his dick hit the back of Mycroft’s throat a few minutes later, and those fingers tugged harder at him, Greg knew he was a goner. His hips bucked against the desk, his hands gripped Mycroft’s neck, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out as he came down his lover’s throat.

_Lover._

The word stuck to his mind as he gasped and panted, letting the high of his orgasm overcome him. Mycroft swallowed the load effortlessly and said nothing as he came up for air and leaned over him, kissing him with lips that were still tainted with the taste of his own cum.

“Fucking shit,” Greg whispered when they pulled apart.

Mycroft just grinned.

He offered Greg a hand, and he felt a bit dizzy as he was lifted off his desk. His softening erection awkwardly dangled out from his trousers, and he was grateful when Mycroft grabbed a hold of his hands to steady them. As their fingers entwined they gazed down at them and stood quietly with their foreheads resting against each other until Mycroft finally announced:

“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve wanted to do that every time I’ve seen you since that kiss.”

“Took you long enough,” Greg murmured with a smile.

They kissed again, and Greg was so elated with happiness that he refused to let the pounding question of _‘what the fuck did we just do?!’_ bother him.

“Well,” Mycroft said, leaning down to grab his tie. Their hands ripped apart, and for a moment Greg felt abandoned. Was Mycroft going to just run off on him after _that_? “I suppose I should let you get back to your paperwork. Though I hope you manage to get some sleep, Detective Inspector. You deserve it.”

Greg grabbed his hand before he could walk away and pulled him close again.

“Don’t you dare,” Greg growled.

Without asking permission, he fell on his knees and raised his head to meet the bulge that was barely contained by Mycroft’s trousers. The elder Holmes gasped when he leaned in to mouth at it, giving him the same treatment he received earlier. He wasted no time freeing Mycroft’s cock; judging by how hard he was- and how _large_ \- he imagined the man was suffering all kinds of desperation.

Carefully, Greg reached for the freed shaft and rubbed his hand alongside it. It had been years since he’d touched another man’s cock- fuck, decades! Just the smell of Mycroft’s arousal made him anxious and sent adrenaline pumping through his veins yet again.

He was rewarded with tiny grunts and moans as he pumped the cock between his hands, but he was determine to gift Mycroft more than just a mediocre hand job after what he was given on the desk. His tongue slipped out of his mouth, lingering just below the head, and he had to close his eyes and promise himself he could still do this.

Taking in a deep breath, Greg took Mycroft in his mouth so quickly he nearly gagged. A hand fell on his head, brushing his hair gently in what could have been a warning to slow down. He did, deciding to take his time and enjoy the opportunity. He sucked slowly, letting the cock slip out inch by inch until it dangled again at his face.

Without warning, Mycroft’s hands grasped his dick and dragged it delicately over Greg’s lips. Greg let out a violent shudder as a thought hit him:

_If this turns into anything, he’s definitely going to be the dominant one!_

Then again, was there ever any doubt?

Hips rocked against his face, reminding Greg of the job he had to do. Apparently, Mycroft Holmes liked it rough.

So rough he would have it.

If this was going to be his only shot at this, he was going to make it count. And if this was going to turn into something more, then he wanted to make the memory one neither man would ever forget a single detail of.

“Sofa,” Greg ordered.

He was self-conscious of the fact that he was breathing harder than the man receiving the blow-job was, but Mycroft didn’t seem to be bothered as he let Greg usher him backward until he felt down into the cushions. For a moment he was filled with embarrassment at the state of what was one a decent leather sofa- now it was filled with stains of late night dinners and sunk awkwardly in the middle from the nights he had slept on it. He couldn’t imagine what the décor of Mycroft’s flat looked like in comparison. Wait, who was he kidding? Mycroft probably owned a mansion.

 _Out of my league!_ He worried as his eyes trailed up to meet the man above him.

But that didn’t stop Mycroft from offering him a single nod, giving him permission to go forward.

So Greg took a leap of faith and sucked him down again, slowly this time, and his efforts were met with a nice, long, sigh of relief. Mycroft reached down, tugging at his trousers, and Greg helped him pull them down his legs. Reaching up, he let his fingers dance up and down the bones of Mycroft’s legs, and he wondered why Sherlock would ever tease him about his weight.

Mycroft reached next for a pair of navy, silk (naturally!) boxer shorts he was wearing, and Greg realised what he was wanting. His face flushed with embarrassment: it had been far too long since any part of his body had been inside another man. But instead of putting that kind of pressure on him, Mycroft simply reached for one of Greg’s hands as he sucked at his cock and gently led it to the opening of arse. Leaning back, Mycroft spread his legs and let out another sigh as he waited for the pleasure to hit him.

Greg closed his eyes and pushed his finger forward, gently, and Mycroft cried out.

“Greg-Gregory!” Mycroft’s voice boomed through his office, and god did he hope no one else had wandered into the department.

Yet silence fell again as Mycroft buried his head into the back of the sofa, stared up at the ceiling, and held onto Greg’s head, pushing him down gently. He took in more and more of his cock as his finger went deeper and deeper into Mycroft’s arse.

He felt guilty for not having any lube, but this didn’t seem to bother Mycroft either as he cautiously let his finger wander further into him. Then he pulled out abruptly, just to tease him, leaving him gasping for breath.

“K-keep going,” Mycroft rasped. “Fuck.”

His heart skipped beats at the shock of hearing Mycroft curse, but it only encouraged him to suck harder, to thrust his finger deeper, until another cry filled the room and suddenly a hot stream of cum shot against his throat. He had to pull away before he started gagging again, but he made up for it by continuing to puncture Mycroft’s arsehole and pump his cock. The next shot landed on his lips, then his chin, and he opened his mouth to let the rest trickle down his throat.

When Mycroft finally stopped cumming Greg simply sat on his knees, allowing them both time to catch their breath. He became aware that Mycroft was fully naked while he was still wearing his trousers and an unbuttoned shirt, but he couldn’t help but to admire the view in front of him.

The man looked positively _wrecked_. Mycroft’s eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets as he fought for breath. His hand was on his heaving chest, his skin was flush, and a beam of sweat trickled across his forehead.

Greg grinned and almost went for saying some cheesy line, but instead he simply lent over Mycroft and placed a soft kiss to his lips. He settled down next to him on the sofa, and Mycroft kept gasping as they kissed again, and again, and again.

At last their heads fell to each other’s shoulders, and Greg massaged Mycroft’s back. He was afraid to say anything- he was afraid to admit that although he thought about their first kiss whenever they talked that he rarely let his mind wander to the realm of sex fantasies. Yet now that they went there, he couldn’t see how he could have ever wanted anything but this.

When they pulled away their eyes met, and Greg felt breathless when he could see in that Mycroft seemed to feel the same way.

“I’m sorry if I put you on the spot,” Mycroft offered.

Greg sat back and laughed, running a hand over his face.

“It’s a little late for that,” he teased, “but no, don’t worry. I…I enjoyed it. Forgive me if I’m a bit in shock, it’s just that you kind of scare the shit out of me.”

Mycroft let out a low chuckle and admitted:

“I get that a lot.”

Offering him a smile, Mycroft reached down and began collecting his clothes. For a moment Greg seemed to forget that they were in his own office, and he felt guilty for feeling so self-conscious in his own territory. Unsure of what else he should say, he simply watched as Mycroft got dressed. Once his suit was in one piece again, Greg blinked, wondering if all of that actually happened.

“Come here,” Mycroft whispered, reaching for his hands. With a gulp Greg stood up, letting Mycroft hold onto him as he pulled him in for a bruising kiss. Their eyes met again, and Mycroft confessed: “I haven’t been in too many relationships. I’ve always been afraid to let people into my life. It’s a dangerous life. It’s chaotic and secretive. I can’t even tell you what my job title is, and if you knew I’m not sure-“

Greg held a finger up to his lips.

“Anything that happens between us stays between us,” he offered. “My job’s fairly high profile too. My name is in the papers. I appreciate the secrecy too.”

Mycroft reached for a pen from his coat.

“Here,” he said, scribbling down a number on the palm of his hand. “It’s a private number I can use just for us.”

“You’re old fashioned,” Greg teased as he admired the writing on his hand. It was neat and clean, though his hand was still a bit shaky. “No one has written their number on my hand since Uni."

“Memorise it and wash it away,” Mycroft instructed. “I’m serious, Gregory. You have no idea what kind of professional life I lead. I’m barely allowed to have a private life, and frankly any personal life I’ve ever had has mainly been raising Sherlock.”

“Understood,” Greg said, raising his hands in defense. “So basically I just had sex with James Bond on my office sofa?”

There was a mysterious twinkle in Mycroft’s eyes that was more than a bit unsettling.

“Oh I am so much more powerful than James Bond.”

He winked, and Greg’s eyes went wide, but Mycroft offered him no more hints as he straightened his suit and picked up his umbrella.

“I must be going,” Mycroft announced. “Like you, I have a long night ahead of me. Good luck with your paperwork. If you’d like, once your case is wrapped up I would like to take you out to dinner.”

His heart fluttered, and Greg stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide how shaky they were becoming. Since his divorce he had only been on a couple of dates, neither of which could be described of anything short of complete catastrophe. He wondered if it would be different working backwards- sex, then first date.

Maybe it would just put more pressure on the date.

He took another look at Mycroft, admiring the wrinkles of his forehead and his bony hands. The umbrella he was always carrying swayed back and forth from his fingertips. His shoes looked to be of genuine leather, and his suit probably cost more than two weeks of his pay.

It struck him that Mycroft Holmes did not _date_. Grown men did not date. They were both too old for these games. Dinner with Mycroft would be just that- dinner. A meal between two adults. A more sophisticated version of standing in his office and gulping down bites of noodle between sips of wine.

“I’ll take you up on that offer,” Greg said, “but if we’re going to do this I do have one rule of my own. Please don’t kidnap me anymore.”

Mycroft roared with laughter and a genuine smile swept across his face that made him look years younger.

“I promise,” Mycroft offered. “I hope I will see you soon, Gregory.”

He wanted to point out that no one but his grandmother ever called him Gregory, but somehow it sounded right coming from Mycroft’s lips. He was sure he looked helpless with his shirt undone, tie askew, and trousers wrinkled as he watched his lover walk away, but he didn’t care.

In fact, he felt entirely carefree for the first time in ages, but of course this instantly reminded him of who was waiting for him back at his flat. Mycroft stopped before he opened the door, and asked quietly:

“Would you mind not telling Sherlock about this?”

Greg nodded. He couldn’t even imagine how Sherlock would take this, and he felt guilty knowing his consultant would probably see this as betrayal.

“Definitely.”

The door closed, and Greg turned around to see what was left of his office after what happened. A pile of papers had fallen to the floor while severely other sheets were stained with what he hoped was sweat. His lo mein had tumbled from its box and onto the floor, and his stomach flipped at the reminder that he still hadn’t eaten anything since the granola bar he had as a late lunch. With a sigh he picked up the paper bag and was grateful to find that he was at least left a couple of egg rolls and of course, the bottle of wine.

He poured another glass, picked up his tie, and had already buttoned his shirt back up by the time he sat back down to continue the paperwork. Every now and then he would stop and glance at the number written on his hand, and though he knew he was supposed to get rid of it he almost couldn’t stand to shed the evidence that remained from what was, without a doubt, one of the most extraordinary experiences he had ever had.


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

Greg Lestrade was running on pure adrenaline. After a night of paperwork and, well, sex, in his office he spent the next day chasing Sherlock around London while the consultant disobeyed every order he gave him about not going after armed criminals. Left with yet another night of paperwork, Donavon was kind enough to offer him a break so he could go home and sleep.

But he couldn’t sleep.

For starters, he was afraid of being in close quarters with Sherlock for fear of wanting to lash out and strangle him. It wasn’t Sherlock who was consistently wearing on his mind, though: it was the other Holmes brother. He couldn’t stop thinking about how good the affair felt, the sounds they made, how wanton Mycroft looked as he knelt in front of him. At last he gave in and decided to take Mycroft up on his offer for dinner.

One thing led to another, and after a candlelit meal that cost more than what he spent on groceries in a single week, he found himself awake in Mycroft’s bed at four in the morning. They were both still naked, their bodies melted in a cold sweat. The two lovers faced each other, but while Mycroft seemed to be sound asleep Greg still couldn’t sleep a wink. Instead he traced a finger up and down Mycroft’s arm, thinking of how good it felt to be inside him. It was laughable now, how nervous he was about taking that next step when it ended up feeling so natural and right.

Mycroft stirred suddenly in his sleep, and Greg rubbed his hand down his arm to help calm him. His eyelids twitched and he whimpered painfully, like he was having a nightmare. All at once his eyes popped open, and Greg’s heart nearly stopped from the shock.

“Mycroft?” He asked softly as his lover blinked, adjusting to being awake. “You okay?”

His knuckles graced Mycroft’s cheek carefully. With a sigh his lover rolled onto his back, and Greg wrapped an arm around him for support. He planted a soft kiss to Mycroft’s bare chest.

“It was Sherlock again,” Mycroft confessed. “He’s the stuff of my nightmares. I just keep dreaming of being there in the hospital with him, or I’ll dream of him roaming around the streets. I can’t stop worrying about him. Do you think he was in rehab long enough?”

As he turned back toward him, Greg stiffened.

“He was in rehab for a month, Mycroft,” he said quietly.

“He barely lasted three weeks.”

Mycroft gazed into his eyes as though searching for answer in them. Greg scooted closer to and they lay there in silence in each other’s arms. Sherlock overdosed before the holidays, and after a horrible week in the hospital Mycroft moved him to a new rehab facility. It only took three days before the head psychiatrist quit, and after three weeks the entire staff threatened to walk out.

“You know how Sherlock gets around doctors,” Greg offered. “Rehab might be a safe place for him to be, but he can’t be forced into rooms with doctors and immediately get clean. Sherlock needs…stimulation. He needs support and, dare I say it, love. He says the overdose was a fluke, and I believe him.”

Mycroft let out a bark of laughter that made Greg feel about three feet tall.

“A fluke?” Mycroft mocked. “Overdosing on cocaine is not a _fluke_.”

“If I tell you something will you swear to me you’ll never tell Sherlock I told you?”

It was his turn to search his lover’s eyes, begging for understanding. Mycroft had no idea how much Sherlock told him in private, but judging by the looks of it he was beginning to see how much was being kept from him. But at last Mycroft reached up, brushed a finger down Greg’s cheek, and whispered:

“Of course.”

“Sherlock told me that he was depressed when he took the cocaine last time. He was in a really bad place, and he just…slipped. I think that he’s just been alone for too long, but he’s afraid to admit he needs support. He doesn’t have friends. He doesn’t have a real job. He’s just…floating through life. He needs to belong somewhere. You should see him when he’s on cases. Even if it is just a chance for him to gloat there’s still this sense of achievement about him, like he’s proud of what he’s doing. I think he genuinely wants to get clean. He wants to turn his life around he just…he needs a friend.”

Mycroft’s mouth opened slowly and then snapped shut. He simply remained quiet, leaning against his pillow as Greg continued letting his finger trail down his cheek, his chin, his neck, his chest. They lay like that, cuddled together in silence, until Greg’s alarm on his mobile went off at half four. He groaned and sat up, snatching his phone from the bedside table. He had to resist the urge to chuck it across the room.

“Take the day off,” Mycroft encouraged. “You’re exhausted, Gregory. You need to sleep.”

Glaring, Gregory pointed out:

“What would happen if you decided to just take the day off?”

“The world might end,” Mycroft replied hotly. Somehow, Greg believed him, and a shiver ran down his back.

He jumped up from the bed stark naked and began collecting his clothes. At the last minute before leaving the flat he packed a bag, just in case, and he was grateful for making the call.

“You go in early,” Mycroft commented. “How is the case going?”

“I chased your brother around the entirety of central London yesterday,” Greg said with a grin. “He’s becoming a damn liability.”

“He’s a liability if all he is doing is sitting on the couch whining that he’s bored,” Mycroft said. With a moan, Mycroft picked himself off the bed and grabbed Greg’s hand before he could slip into the bathroom. “Mind if I join you?”

A rush of heat went through him, and Greg already felt himself getting hard again.

“It is your shower,” he pointed out.

They kissed, and Greg took a moment to hold Mycroft in his arms before letting him go.

“Sherlock will be okay,” Greg said quietly as their foreheads rested together. “We just need to find a way for him to channel all that hurt before it becomes too much for him. I suppose I don’t want to leave him alone for too many more nights, though.”

Mycroft kissed him again and smiled.

“Yes, well,” Mycroft turned away, casually wiping his hand across his mouth. “We should just take our time.”

“Agreed,” Greg said, “but I want to take you out again. Perhaps over the weekend? And if you ever need a drink well, the wine’s still stashed in my office.”

As their eyes met Greg wasn’t sure if he had ever felt so relaxed. He was happy, truly happy, even though it had just been a couple of nights. Mycroft was right- they should probably slow down before things got a little bit too serious too quick.

But when Mycroft turned around, revealing the red, sore-looking state of his arse, Greg smirked, thinking that it was probably too late for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for checking out the story! I'd love to hear your thoughts about it.


	3. Gaming

A knock at his office door nearly made Greg jump out of his skin. He took his eyes away from his mobile for the first time in hours to see Sally standing in the doorway.

“Yes?” He asked, attempting to not sound too annoyed.

“The witness is here,” Sally explained. “I thought you’d like to be the first to take a crack at him.”

Yes, three hours ago he would have loved to have talked to the witness.

But that was before he sent the text. That was before the madness started.

It all started with one word, one single-word reply when Greg dared to ask Mycroft if he ever played any games on his mobile. The question was just a joke, really.

And then…

_Scrabble? -MH_

It began.

Greg thought he started off pretty well as he was easily able to find words for ‘a’, ‘b’, and ‘l’. Mycroft didn’t seem to have much luck with the tiles he had, but somehow he managed to come up with kinetic, cirque, and jackal, just to name a few clever examples.

“Right,” Greg said, nodding absent-mindedly. “Right…Sally, can I ask you a question?”

Sally shrugged her shoulders.

“Of course.”

He glanced back at his mobile, staring once again at the ominous ‘X’ that was haunting him.

“Do you know any good words that start with X?” He asked.

His colleague’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he thought he was going to get a lecture. Instead, she replied:

“Xyst.”

She slipped away, and Greg began grinning like an idiot. He typed the word in, and it wasn’t seconds before he got a message from Mycroft.

_You cheat!_

_Did not!_ Greg texted back. _I am actually pretty clever, thank you._

_Do you even know what a ‘xyst’ is?_

Honestly, he didn’t have a clue what it meant. He considered typing it into his search engine, but Mycroft was too quick. Greg watched as the board game on his mobile changed to reveal Mycroft had placed down ‘s’ and ‘e’ on top of the ‘x’.

_Cute,_ Greg texted. _The only thing the most powerful man in England can come up with in Scrabble is ‘sex’._

His reply was a winking-face emoticon.

Huh.

So Mycroft knew what emoticons were.

Greg blinked as he stared at the board, trying to make something of his pitiful choices of words and lack of interesting letters. The best he was able to do was form ‘talk’ from the letter ‘t’.

Only moments later, Mycroft used the ‘a’ to spell out…

_Arse?! Seriously?_

_I’m out of tiles. I’ll send you my score later. Meeting. -MH_

Gripping his mobile tightly in his hands, Greg resisted the urge to chuck it across the room. He saved the game, exited the app, and vowed to never again accept a challenge to play Mycroft Holmes in Scrabble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I suck at Scrabble! Sorry it was short, but I didn't have much time to write! I love the idea of these two playing a board game. Even if it's via mobile!


	4. On A Date

“Mycroft, this is…this is amazing.”

Wine glass clutched in his hand, Greg soaked in the warmth of Mycroft’s arms as the two gazed out at the gorgeous view from top of the London Eye.

“I haven’t been up here since it opened,” Greg admitted. 

The two stood in a private capsule, accompanied only by a host who was managing a small table of wine and food samples.

“Do you want to know a secret?” Mycroft murmured. “I’ve never been up here.”

Greg turned to him, genuinely shocked.

“No way!”

With a shrug, Mycroft replied:

“I suppose I just never had the time, nor the company.”

They shared a smile, and he snuggled closer against Mycroft’s chest. He took another sip of the Chardonnay to finish off the glass. Their date had only just begun, and as an uncomfortable silence fell between them Greg realised he didn’t have a clue what to talk about. He already knew the basics of Mycroft’s family history, and what he didn’t know were things Mycroft probably wasn’t comfortable talking about. At the same time, his date knew all about his job and his home life. If he got too much into the details of his personal life Greg worried the topic of his divorce would come up, and though he was secretly curious about Mycroft’s relationship history he didn’t want to put him on the spot.

“So…what else haven’t you done in London?” Greg asked. Mycroft let out the smallest of laughs, and Greg was embarrassed when his stomach fluttered at the sight. “Come on, Mycroft, face it. We’re well past our prime, and I have a feeling you’re not the type that wants to spend every date at the movies.”

“I like movies!” Mycroft protested.

“Brilliant! _Slumdog Millionaire_ is coming out next weekend, want to go?”

Mycroft’s face scrunched up in a mixture of confusion and disgust, and Greg burst out laughing.

“You don’t have to pretend around me, Mycroft,” he said. “I know you, remember? You live a certain lifestyle, and my lifestyle…well frankly, outside of work and Sherlock I don’t really have much of a life. What we both need is to go out there and just…do things.”

His lover still didn’t look convinced. Actually, he looked scared, and Greg felt a bit relieved when he realised Mycroft was probably just as nervous as he was.

“Are you as terrified as I am right now?” Greg asked.

A weight fell from his shoulders when Mycroft laughed and nodded.

“Probably more so,” Mycroft admitted. “Gregory, I would be ashamed to admit how long it’s been since I’ve been in a relationship, let alone on a date. I don’t know how to do this.”

Greg turned back to their view of London. The sun was setting and the clouds were swirling in colours of orange and pink. He never got to see the city like this, the way the tourist and the rest of the world did. He spent so much time chasing psychopaths that he lost touch with the heart of the city, but Mycroft- Mycroft was gazing over London like it was _his_.

“You’re doing a brilliant job, if you ask me,” Greg said. “This is pretty amazing.”

“It’s a relief to hear that.”

Pulling him close, Mycroft planted a kiss to the top of his head, and Greg’s eyes widened.

“What about-?” He whispered, nodding toward the host.

While their host had been doing an excellent job of pretending like he wasn’t there, Greg remembered Mycroft’s plea for privacy and was worried they were being too careless.

“He’s fine,” Mycroft whispered back. He offered Greg a reassuring smile and asked: “More wine?”

Greg nodded and followed his date over to the wine tasting table. The host poured them each a generous glass of Cabernet sauvignon, and they clang their glasses together in a quiet toast before taking a sip.

“It’s been an amazing night, Mycroft,” Greg said. “This week has been mind-blowing. Honestly, I’m not even sure what to think about it all. These past couple of years have been so hard, but these past couple of days have just been fantastic.”

Grinning mischievously, Mycroft clearly knew his mind was already going to sex. Yes, the sex was brilliant, but he hadn’t felt this alive since…since…

Well since he met his wife.

And that was the truly scary part, wasn’t it? How was he supposed to know rather or not he was making another huge mistake?

“I agree,” Mycroft said between sips of wine. “However, I do feel as though we need to get to know each other a little better.”

Greg’s eyebrows shot up.

“Please don’t pretend like you don’t already know everything there is to know about me.”

A hint of pink rose in Mycroft’s cheeks, and Greg knew he was right. Sherlock told him stories of Mycroft’s meddling, and judging by those tales he wouldn’t be surprised if there were cameras watching his flat.

“I must admit there is a ‘D.I. Lestrade’ file in my filing cabinet, but I wish to hear the story from _you_.”

“What’s there to say?” Greg said, shrugging his shoulders. “I grew up in London. My father worked in a factory, my mother taught literature-“

“Really?” Mycroft’s eyes lit up. “My mother loved literature.”

“Her specialisation was early 19th century literature,” Greg explained, “but she loved reading all sorts of books. You know, she reminds me a bit of you actually. She’s very proper, very old-fashioned. She still listens to classical music and refuses to learn how to use a mobile.”

Mycroft laughed.

“I at least know that much!” He teased. “She sounds wonderful, but I’m sure having a copper for a son wears on her nerves.”

 _You have no idea._ His mum was getting up into her years to the point where Greg worried each time she had so much as a minor cold, but that didn’t stop her constant nagging.

“She still calls at least twice a week to check up on me,” he admitted. “But she does like to brag about her son, the copper from the newspapers. Unless, of course, I’ve totally mucked up a case.”

A smile lingered on Mycroft’s face, but it didn’t take a psychologist to see that it still upset him to think about his parents. Greg knew the gist of the story- Mycroft and Sherlock’s father left when they were young, and then their mother passed away almost ten years later. He was able to learn that much from his own background checks, but Sherlock spoke so little about his parents that he often wondered if the kid even really knew his mum. It was heartbreaking to think about- and it was obviously a sore wound for Mycroft.

“You know with your power and all you have accomplished I’m sure your mum would have thought the world of you," Greg commented. 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Mycroft replied dryly. His eyes went dark as he took another sip of wine. “There are things I’ve done that would have sickened Mummy. Sometimes it’s actually a bit of a relief that she’s not here to see what’s become of her sons.”

Greg placed a comforting hand on Mycroft’s arm and tried desperately to come up with a change of subject. At the same time he couldn’t help but to wonder what type of sickening things it was that Mycroft was talking about. Would he be upset too, if he knew? Maybe that was part of why he kept his job so secretive.

“I bet she would be proud,” Greg said, knowing it was more along the lines of what Mycroft needed to hear. “You’ve been amazing with him. I know it isn’t easy- trust me, I know- but you’re a brilliant big brother. Sherlock’s just stubborn, but one day he’ll realise he owes you his life.”

When Mycroft didn’t reply, Greg felt guilty for even bringing up the subject. He remembered how happy Mycroft seemed to be when talking about things they could do together, and he asked:

“You know if there are any other historic landmarks you’ve been deprived of seeing you should just say. The Globe Theatre is lovely, if you haven’t been. Right up your alley.”

“Are you kidding?” Mycroft asked. “I adore it. I did inherit some of my mother’s passions. It’s been at least a decade since I’ve seen a Shakespeare performance.”

“That’s settled then!” Greg announced. “Me and you at the Globe, anytime.”

Mycroft smiled again, and Greg got the feeling that he was sincerely excited about the thought.

“See, that’s what dating should be about for blokes our age,” Greg went on. “Re-discovering what we’ve been missing all these years.”

Suddenly Mycroft’s lips were on his. He stopped breathing as their lips danced in a bruising kiss. A strong pair of arms wrapped round his waist, but just as he was settling into the warmth of Mycroft’s body the host began pouring more wine behind them. It seemed to hit them both at the same time that they weren’t alone; their faces flushed with embarrassment.

“Whatever happened to being discrete?” Greg murmured.

He was pulled away from the host so they could speak more privately near the edge of the capsule. They stood face-to-face, and their eyes met as Mycroft promised:

“Your safety will always be my priority. There are precautions we will need to take in public, but somehow I always forget that everyone in the world does not know who I am. Or you, for that matter. I get so caught up in the secrecy, the privacy, that I forget that I am really nobody.”

He had to admit, that made sense. What were the odds that the host in one of the capsules of the London Eye was a part of some secret organisation plotting Mycroft’s death?

Then again, just the thought struck a chord of panic in him.

“You ran a full background check on that man and ensured we had full security tonight, didn’t you?” Greg teased.

Mycroft simply tipped his glass of wine to his lips and turned back to the view of the city. Laughing, Greg wrapped an arm around him and whispered:

“Thank you.”

Because really…what _if_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support so far!! I hope you enjoyed their first proper date!


	5. Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going back a little further into the past with this chapter to revisit Greg and Mycroft's actual first kiss. On a side note, can you believe 2007 was *7* years ago?!

_2007_

He didn’t have time for this. It was the middle of the night. He had been up for three days straight, and after finally solving his latest serial killer case Greg got to celebrate by taking his consultant to rehab. To top it off he and his wife had a ridiculously horrible row a few days ago over his job and she ran off to stay with her sister. He was exhausted, he was angry, he was hurt and confused, which was why he did not have time to be kidnapped by Mycroft Holmes.

“You’re late!” Greg shouted at the empty warehouse. “If you’re going to kidnap me you should at least have the decency to show up on time! I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Language, Detective Inspector.”

The familiar click of Mycroft’s umbrella echoed through the building as it tapped against the floor, and Greg’s chest tightened when he finally laid eyes on Sherlock’s older brother. Mycroft looked exactly the same each time he saw him, but this time he looked a bit older, a bit more tired.

“Mr. Holmes,” Greg sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t go see you first, but I felt a call had to be made quickly.”

He held his breath, hoping that was enough to save him. When Sherlock showed up to his flat high _again_ last night his own heart nearly stopped. Sherlock collapsed as he admitted he had been using, and given the number of track marks on Sherlock’s arm, the state of his eyes, and how badly he was shaking, Greg knew he didn’t have much time to waste making decisions. He took Sherlock to the hospital, and he was shocked when his consultant agreed to go to rehab without argument the next morning. He was fairly certain he had only gained Sherlock’s trust by not turning him over to Mycroft, but he knew he would be reprimanded for it.

 “I’m not here to lecture you,” Mycroft’s voice was uncharacteristically soft as he approached him. “I’m here to thank you.”

“Really?” Greg struggled to find the strength in his own voice.

Mycroft took another step forward, bringing them closer than they had ever been before.

“Sherlock needed someone he could trust to turn to for help,” Mycroft explained. “You were there for him when he needed you the most. I’ll be grateful for that, forever. To see Sherlock go down this path again breaks my heart, but knowing you were there for him and seeing how seriously you took him makes me feel as though I’m not fighting this battle alone.”

“You’re not,” Greg whispered. He cleared his throat and swatted at his eyes as his own emotions began to get the best of him. He felt so drained that he was impressed he was still standing. “I care about Sherlock. He’s young and so full of potential, even if he doesn’t recognise that. So I let him in, even after he broke a promise. I don’t regret sending him to rehab, not for one moment.”

“No, you did the right thing.”

Mycroft gazed at him, and Greg was relieved to see there was no unspoken end to that sentence. He really did mean it.

“Right,” Greg nodded. “Well, if you need me you have my mobile number. Or you can just send another car. But I really am bloody tired so may I please be excused from this meeting?”

For a moment Mycroft looked hurt. He had this sad look of a lost puppy being shoved away by a stranger. What Mycroft said about feeling alone hit him hard. His brother wasn’t talking to him, he had no other family. Greg had a creeping suspicion that he was being kidnapped on a routine basis to fulfill a need for support.

And if that wasn’t disturbing then he didn’t know what was.

“Like I said earlier, I just wanted to thank you,” Mycroft said. It became clear to Greg that the man was searching for excuses to keep him there, and panic began to rise in him. What was this that was happening between them? What did Mycroft think it was? “You’re the closest thing to a friend my brother has. I would give anything to see him in rehab, but something tells me he won’t have me. If you wouldn’t mind keeping me updated, I would be grateful.”

_Like I have a choice._

“Of course,” he nodded. “Sherlock is in good hands. This new facility is top-notch. I think your brother just feels very lost. I think he lived on the streets for so long that he forgot what it was like to, well, really live. Getting his own flat may have been too big of a step. The facility wants to start him out with a 90 day program, but that will just be focusing on the drugs. He’s going to need to adjust to _life_. I told him that once he was out he could stay with me. I may be overstepping some boundaries, but he looked really relieved to hear that. Knowing he has somewhere to go home to might make rehab a little easier. Knowing there will be someone there to care for him, to look after him, well I think that will make all of us feel a bit easier about all of this.”

Mycroft’s face hardened. Of course that would have come across as insulting- what was he thinking? He couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for Mycroft knowing his brother would rather go live with a colleague, whom he still hardly knew, than his own family.

“I think you are right,” Mycroft admitted. He tapped his umbrella against the ground and let out a sigh, as though he hated to admit he was wrong. “I may have pushed Sherlock too much. The truth is he doesn’t like me tell him what to do, how to live, or where to live. Perhaps the key to this is stepping back and giving him some room to breathe. The problem is, Detective Inspector, that Sherlock has done nothing to gain that kind of trust. You, however, I do believe you can be trusted. If you believe you are fit to help my brother, and if he trusts you, then I will agree to it.”

“It makes me feel better to hear that,” Greg said with a smile. “Am I free to go?”

 “Yes,” Mycroft smirked. “You are dismissed.”

He offered a kind smile and turned away, but before he could make a run for the exit Mycroft grabbed his arm. Panic flooded him and adrenaline rushed through his bones, but before he could consider a defensive move Mycroft forced him around…and kissed him.

Their lips smashed together and Greg froze. Mycroft’s grip on his arm melted into a soft touch. His other hand found Greg’s chest, and when he tried to break away from the kiss he was just pulled in closer. Mycroft tasted of scotch and of breath mints; his breathing was erratic and his lips were shy, not daring to go any deeper. When Mycroft’s lips parted ever-so slightly Greg gasped and broke away. Eyes wide, heart pounding, he stared at Mycroft, unsure of what to think or do.

Mycroft simply held a hand to his mouth and turned away, as though he were in shock himself.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispered.

He turned and all but ran from the room.

 _“What?”_ Greg breathed.

He was shaking. He felt feint. Raising a hand to his forehead, he tried to take a few deep breaths but ultimately decided his best move would be to flee as well. Once he hit the pavement outside he leaned against an alley wall and simply breathed. He thought he was going to be sick and wrapped an arm around his stomach, trying to comfort himself.

His wife had been gone a matter of days and here he was, snogging someone else. Snogging a _man_. What did that make him? Just as bad as his wife? Just as confused as her, perhaps?

_No, not confused. I was kissed, that is all. It happens to plenty of blokes. I couldn’t help it, and I don’t have to feel one way or another about it._

The thought provided a little relief as he flagged down a cab. He would like to think, in the years to come, that the kiss was so terrifying because he secretly liked it.

In reality, the kiss marked a new chapter in his life. Everything changed with that one simple, _awkward_ , kiss, and he knew it in his heart that very moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, their very first kiss! What did you think?


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, DeathFrsibee221, who has gone back and betaed the first few chapters.

“Nice tie, Sir,” Sally commented as they filed out of their press conference.

Greg glanced down, trying to remember what colour he had chosen this morning. It wasn’t often that he received a compliment on his style from his team. But when he caught sight of the tie he stopped, falling behind his team, with the tie lifted to his face. The contrasting shades of red colours of the striped tie clashed horribly with the lavender colour of his shirt he was wearing. After waking up in Mycroft’s bed again he must have gotten dressed so quickly he grabbed the wrong tie.

“Fuck!” He mumbled under his breath, stealing away to his office.

He desperately searched his private drawers and cabinets, only to find his emergency stock of changes of clothes had thinned out. Whipping out his mobile, he hit a speed dial button to try to reach Mycroft. When the other line picked up he breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Thank god,” Greg greeted. “I’m wearing your bloody tie! A bright red tie and a purple shirt? They’re not even the same patterns. I just went on telly looking like a complete moron. I look like a bloody clown. I can’t believe I picked up the wrong tie.”

That was when his trousers came up just enough over his ankles to reveal he was wearing one white sock and one black sock.

“Great, I’m wearing two different socks too,” he sighed. “And one of them is yours!”

“You know, I really should be the angry one in this conversation. You’re stealing my clothes.”

“I’m not!” He stopped, realising that he sounded like a child. “I had to leave early and you were asleep so I tried getting dressed in the dark.”

Mycroft let out a soft chuckle, making Greg want to stamp his foot in frustration.

“My house does come equipped with mirrors, you know,” Mycroft teased.

“I was running late. I haven’t had a chance to stop all day. They shoved me into that press conference without warning. Just…please, can you help me out?” He begged. “I have another press conference this evening and I’m fresh out of extra clothes at the office. I feel like I’m in over my head with this case, my team’s too busy for someone else to run out, and even if I asked they would laugh me out of the Yard.”

Greg was surprised to hear how sympathetic Mycroft sounded when he replied:

“It happens to the best of us. I’m afraid I’m in meetings all day, but I’ll send a car around with a change of clothes. And I saw the press conference. If anyone was paying attention to your suit and tie they’re in the wrong field. You’re doing brilliant work on this case.”

“Thank you. Really Mye, I wish I could kiss you.”

He collapsed into his chair so he could calm himself down, and that’s when he realised how uncomfortable his boxers were. They felt like they had shrunken in the dryer or… “Christ, I’m wearing your pants too!”

This earned him a bark of laughter, and his cheeks became red-hot.

“Oh yes, I meant to text you about that this morning when I found a mysterious pair of pants on my floor,” Mycroft confessed. “Although part of me wanted to believe you left them as a souvenir.”

Greg would have given anything to spend the rest of the day melted into a puddle on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying this so far! I'm loving the chance to write more Mystrade. I'd love to know what you thought!


	7. Cosplaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me forever to come up with a good idea for 'cosplay'. This is as close as I could get!

“Sherlock?” Greg called softly, knocking on the door to his flatmate’s bedroom.

When there was no answer from his consultant a knot formed in his stomach. Typically Sherlock was home waiting for him after work, like a child, but today his flat was empty.

“I brought pizza,” Greg offered.

Once again there was no answer, and his nerves got the better of him. Sherlock’s bedroom door was shut, which either meant he was sleeping or hiding something. If Sherlock was ever acting strange- or if he was missing- it was bad sign, and Greg learned long ago to never let those signs go unnoticed for too long. At that moment he thought he heard someone stirring in the room, and Greg opened the door just enough to peer in.

The stench of cigarette smoke hit him as soon as he stepped into the bedroom. He didn’t smoke in the flat, but apparently that rule didn’t apply to Sherlock. Greg’s guestroom in his flat was small, roughly only ten by eleven feet, leaving Sherlock with enough room for a full sized bed and nightstand. An old filing cabinet of Greg’s was standing as a substitute for a dresser, but nearly every piece of clothing Sherlock owned was scattered on the floor. Only Sherlock’s violin seemed to receive special care; it was propped against a violin stand beside a music stand holding a composition Sherlock was working on.

In the darkness he could see the room was empty, and he wanted to just leave it at that and hope Sherlock would come home soon, but he then noticed a shoebox full of pictures on Sherlock’s bed.

On top of the box was a photo of miniature versions of Sherlock and Mycroft, at only about four and eleven years old. Sherlock’s hair was just as curly and unruly as it was now while Mycroft sported dozens of freckles across his cheeks and flaming red hair that made Greg wondered if he ever coloured it to tone it down a bit.

The Holmes brothers were standing in a kitchen that was full of Halloween decorations, and they were dressed as pirates, of all things. Mycroft had a small, fake, parrot on his shoulder and held one leg up, like he was pretending to have a missing leg. A smile spread across Greg’s face, and he immediately took out his mobile to send a picture of the photo to Mycroft. He was never going to let him hear the end of this one.

“What are you doing in here?”

Greg swirled around at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. His consultant stood in the doorway, the light behind him cast an intimidating shadow and Greg froze up.

“I was looking for you,” Greg stammered, “and this was on the bed. I couldn’t help but to notice, sorry. I only saw the picture of you and your brother.”

Without replying, Sherlock snatched the shoebox from his bed and went to the closet to hide it. Greg was reluctant to leave him: looking through old photos, reminicising, disappearing, being secretive, he was worried that meant Sherlock wasn’t in a good place tonight.

“I was out, sorry,” Sherlock mumbled.  

When he turned around Greg was surprised to see how tired Sherlock looked. For some reason he assumed that most of what his flatmate did when he wasn’t at home was sleep, but Sherlock looked positively exhausted.

“Hungry?” Greg asked. Sherlock shook his head. “If you change your mind there’s pizza. I’ll just be watching telly.”

Sherlock nodded, and once again Greg felt like a lost parent. He just didn’t know what to do with Sherlock, besides make sure he had food, water, and wasn’t getting high.

Suddenly his blood ran cold.

_No._

He flipped on a light and Sherlock groaned, but Greg didn’t care as he crossed over to him and grabbed his shoulders.

“Get off!” Sherlock snapped, shoving him away. “I wasn’t out getting high. I just went for a walk.”

“It’s freezing out!”

Sherlock glared at him, and Greg felt horrible. Of course. Just like how Sherlock had developed a tolerance against drugs, he had also developed a tolerance against the cold, hunger, and sleep deprivation.

“Keep it down, will you?” Sherlock asked quietly. “I’m just going to…crash.”

He ran a hand through his hair and stared longingly at the bed, as though he secretly yearned for a true night of sleep.

“Right. Yeah, sure, I will. Good night.”

As he slipped away from the room he breathed a sigh of relief. He supposed that could have gone worse. The conversation left him longing for support, and a text to his lover wasn’t going to be enough. He took out his mobile and disappeared into his own bedroom as he rang Mycroft.

“Pirates!” Greg exclaimed. “You and Sherlock dressed as pirates for Halloween one year. I saw the picture.”

“Oh god. Please spare me this conversation.”

Greg grinned.

“No chance! You two were adorable. Come on, tell me the story.”

“Gregory, it’s been a long day-“

 _“Please!”_ He begged.

There was a sigh on the other line, and Mycroft confessed:

“When Sherlock was little he had an obsession with pirates. Even at just five years old, he had me read _Treasure Island_ to him. Our family home was overwhelming to a child, and he used to run around the house looking for hiding places for treasure.”

Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and thought that he hadn’t seen himself smile this brightly in ages. He felt sixteen again as he clutched his phone to his ear.

“That’s adorable,” he replied. “So naturally he wanted to be a pirate for Halloween.”

“He was a pirate _every_ Halloween.”

“And who were you supposed to be in the picture?” Greg asked.

Mycroft sighed again and mumbled:

“Long John Silver.”

He couldn’t help but to burst out laughing.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Greg teased. “Did you just say that you used to dress up as Long John Silver?”

“I had my moments,” Mycroft replied dryly. “Sherlock was supposed to be a member of my crew. I think I know exactly which picture you are talking about- that night Mummy drug us to an awful party her co-workers threw.”

Greg laughed, trying to picture Mycroft pretending to be a one-legged pirate.

“Do you still have any of those costumes?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mycroft replied. “What did you used to dress up as on Halloween?”

“Oh I don’t know…” Greg tried to think back, but those memories were so far away he could hardly recall them. “A detective, I suppose. I was never into Halloween.”

“Well, I would ask if you still had your costumes, but obviously…”

“I was a _cool_ detective!” Greg shot. “Not a blundering fool who can’t even properly dress himself.”

There was the sound of clinging glass on the other line, and Greg pictured Mycroft sitting back with a drink.

“Some of us are more interested in what you look like not in mismatched clothes. Or any clothes.”

He felt like his body already becoming warm. Greg knew there was really no reason he shouldn’t be over at Mycroft’s right now, but they had barely been together a week. They were moving fast, very fast, and Greg still had Sherlock to worry about too.

“Can I see you this weekend?” Greg breathed.

“Of course.”

A silence fell over them, and he felt uncomfortable keeping Mycroft any longer.

“I should let you go,” Greg said. “I have dinner waiting.”

“Enjoy your dinner, Gregory. I will see you soon.”

For the rest of the night he couldn’t shake the image of Mycroft dressed as Long John Silver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the Mystrade! Let me know what you think!


	8. Shopping

“So tell me what you’re shopping for again?” Greg asked.

He was with Mycroft at a designer clothing shop. Mycroft was in search for something to wear to some important meeting- a meeting so important it apparently required a whole new wardrobe.

“Something new,” Mycroft replied, turning his nose up as he pulled a forest-green piece from the clothing rack. “I have to travel all the way to bloody America next week for this meeting. It’s going to be awful…but it’s essential that I dress to impress, as the saying goes.”

Greg grabbed Mycroft’s hand and squeezed it, making his lover blush.

“You always look good,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft turned back to the clothes, clearly more turned on than he wanted the public to know.

“What sort of meeting are you going to?” Greg asked.

“Oh, the usual,” Mycroft sighed. He pulled out a bright orange waistcoat and looked like he might puke. “I’m called upon to make sure the rest of the world doesn’t royally screw up. I’m actually attending a series of meetings in Washington, and I must admit I despise DC politicians. The last time I went there was a golfing outing involved.”

His lover held up a pale yellow waistcoat to get his opinion, and Greg feverishly shook his head no. Yellow was definitely not Mycroft’s colour.

“You play golf?” Greg said, impressed.

“When I have to,” Mycroft admitted. “Apparently you can’t work in politics in America without playing golf.”

Greg placed a hand on his shoulder, but Mycroft didn’t react as he continued searching through the waistcoat rack. He must have been playing it safe, as usual, though they were the only shoppers there.

“Are you any good?” Greg asked.

Mycroft pulled out a charcoal waistcoat and held it to his chest. Greg had to admit, it looked good on him. He nodded, giving his approval.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft sighed. “What do you think of this shirt?”

He held up a plain white collared dress shirt and Greg shrugged.

“Looks like a shirt to me. Honestly, I’m not the best at fashion.”

“Neither am I,” Mycroft mumbled.

_Lies!_

He threw the shirt and coat over his arm and made a beeline for the ties. Greg watched as his lover pulled an assortment of dark and light grey ties, and he wondered if Mycroft realised he was putting together a boring suit combo. He grabbed a solid maroon tie and a baby blue one.

“This is sharper. Maroon for work,” he said, holding the tie up to Mycroft’s neck. He switched it with the blue. “Blue for play.”

They stood in front of a mirror as Mycroft modeled the shirt and tie combo, and he was relieved when his lover offered a grim smile.

“This will do,” Mycroft said. He glanced down at his feet and scrunched his nose in disproval. “Perhaps I need new shoes too.”

“You really hate shopping, don’t you?” Greg teased.

“Almost as much as politicians,” Mycroft groaned. “I’m afraid I’m boring you.”

He stole a kiss to Mycroft’s neck before his lover could protest. They were very alone, tucked back in the corner of the shop, and even Mycroft allowed himself a moment for his eyes to flutter shut.

“You look good in these colours,” Greg commented, “and you’re not boring me.”

He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist and brushed his lips against his lover’s neck again.

“Are you two finding everything okay?”

They both jumped at the sound of a shop assistant voice.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “I think I will just take these.”

“Excellent choices. May I take them to the register?”

Mycroft offered him the clothing options, and as soon as he disappeared from sight Greg giggled. It earned him a playful hit to his arm, and after making sure they really were alone this time he took Mycroft by surprise by placing a kiss to his lips. The kiss was quick and a bit awkward, and when they broke apart they lingered close, their arms barely brushing together.

“How long will you be gone?” He asked quietly.

“Not too long, I hope,” Mycroft replied. “If I’m gone more than three days send a search party.”

Three days? Three days was an eternity.

 _I’ll miss you._ He stopped himself from saying it just in time.  It made him sound desperate, and he didn’t want Mycroft thinking he was needy.

“I’ll miss you,” Mycroft whispered. Greg’s eyes went wide at the confession.

“Yeah, me too.”

He caught a glimpse of Mycroft’s watch and felt heartbroken when he saw how late it was getting. Their time was running out.

“It’s just a short trip,” Mycroft said, sounding like he was trying to reassure himself just as much as Greg.

“Yeah.”

Mycroft sighed as he checked the time.

“I suppose we should head to a shoe shop,” Mycroft said. “I apologise in advance. I know how dreadfully boring it is to watch someone try on shoes.”

Greg grabbed his arm, stole a kiss to his cheek, and murmured into his ear:

“You can make up for it later.”

As he pulled back he winked and was pleased to see Mycroft’s face turn red with embarrassment.

“Yes, well, perhaps the shoes could wait,” Mycroft replied. “It appears we have a long night ahead of ourselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going away always means celebrating a return ;)
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments! I always appreciate hearing what you guys think!


	9. With Animal Ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a tease. My apologies in advance ;)

_In his sleep Greg tossed and turned, his hand scraping over the cock hidden his pyjamas. Behind his closed eyelids was the image of Mycroft riding him, pushing him deeper and deeper into the mattress with each thrust. All Mycroft wore was a pair of fuzzy zebra-pattern animal ears…just like the ones at a crime scene earlier! They ended up having nothing to do with the crime, and his team spent the rest of the afternoon taking goofy photos of themselves wearing the headband. Greg was talked into doing one too and later that evening after a couple of lagers he texted it to Mycroft._

_“Please,” he moaned against in his sleep._

_Dream Mycroft grunted and leaned forward so they were face-to-face. Reaching up, Greg wrapped a hand around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. Mycroft’s tongue slipped inside his mouth, tasting him for a moment before letting it slide out to grace his jaw. His lover planted teasing kisses along his jaw and chin. He slid his tongue down his neck, his chest, and finally over to his nipple._

_“Oh god,” Greg whispered as Mycroft’s tongue danced back and forth across his nipple. “Yes.”_

_When he was finished teasing the left he moved on to mouthing the right, while rubbing the left in his hand. Meanwhile his cock dove into him, brushing against his prostate with each swift move, sending him closer and closer to-_

His alarm went off, and Greg’s eyes flew open. His heart was pounding, his chest was heaving, and his pyjamas were completely soaked. It didn’t take him long to find out why as he saw his sheets were also damp with spots of cum. Shaking his head, he tried to clear away the image of Mycroft fucking him while wearing that stupid headband. God, if Mycroft knew he dreamed that…

If _anyone_ knew!

He quickly shedded his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist, thinking a cold shower was in order. It was just after five and his bedroom was still a little dark, but the living room flats were still on and he was surprised to see Sherlock was awake and watching telly on the sofa. He distinctively remembered the sounds he was making in his dream, and he became overwhelmed with panic. What if he actually moaned in his sleep? What if Sherlock heard him moan?!

Greg swallowed nervously and decided he had to know.

“I woke to the sound of my own screaming,” Greg lied. “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

“Didn’t hear anything,” Sherlock mumbled. He made a beeline for the bathroom and was just about to turn the knob when Sherlock called: “But if you’re going to watch porn at all hours of the night you could at least have the decency to wear headphones. Or find good porn.”

He practically threw himself into the bathroom and locked the door. He had a sex dream about Sherlock’s brother…and Sherlock heard it! And he thought it was porn! It didn’t exactly make matters any less awkward.

Nevertheless, even as the cold water hit him and began cooling the flush of his skin, Greg couldn’t help but to close his eyes and once again think of Mycroft. Maybe one day, if he was drunk enough, he may share the dream. Maybe Mycroft even had equally as dirty dreams about him.

“Shit,” he mumbled as his hands grasped the shower walls for support.

He resisted the urge to wank, remembering that Sherlock was still just on the other side of the walls. It felt dirty, thinking about his consultant’s brother while he stayed in his flat. It felt wrong, it felt.

A flash of memory from the dream popped into mind of Mycroft dragging his tongue down his neck.

In the living room Sherlock turned the telly up louder, as though expecting he might hear something uncomfortable.

_Great, I’m never going to have a moment of peace in this flat._

He resorted to turning the water so that it was even colder, until his skin closed and he could finally close his eyes without seeing Mycroft thrusting against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot how weird some of these prompts were! I like some of the later ones better- though I suppose that's why it's called a challenge! And yes, if you're wondering, of course Mycroft has dreams like that too. You will see ;)
> 
> Any thoughts on this chapter?


	10. Hanging Out With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm becoming pretty terrible at the whole prompt-a-day thing. I have many excuses, but I won't bore you with them. Instead I say...enjoy the new chapter!

By the second day Mycroft was gone, Greg needed a drink. Not just a couple of lagers after work. He needed to get utterly smashed before he completely lost his mind. It was Friday night, and he felt no shame in heading straight to his favourite pub after work. Against his better judgment he invited a mate, James Peterson, who was D.C.I. back when he was sergeant and working his way up the ranks. He and James weren’t exactly close, but James was a good listener and usually didn’t mind Greg pouring out his soul over some whiskey.

“Greg! He jumped at James voice and stood just in time to be engulfed in a brotherly embraced. James hadn’t changed much since the last time he saw him. At more than a few years than Greg, James was shorter and a bit on the round side, and his hair was so thin he probably could pull off going bald. He wore a t-shirt, jeans, and trainers as opposed to Greg’s suit and tie, making him a bit envious of James’ early retirement. “Good to see you mate! Judging by your face you must have had some week.”

“You can say that,” he mumbled. He’d never had a week filled with so much stress and emotion. On one hand he had the time with his life with Mycroft- and on the other hand his week at work was filled with enough stress to make him consider resigning. “But you don’t want to hear about that. How’s life? How’s the kids?”

He waved down the bartender and ordered a couple of whiskies.

“Jacob is eighteen so he’s focused on moving out,” James said, “Hailey is sixteen so she’s focused on torturing me. We shouldn’t have waited so long to have kids, this parenting stuff is killing me. I love it though.”

“Oh wow,” Greg breathed as he accepted his whiskey. “It seems like just yesterday we were going to their rugby games.”

“Yeah, those were the days.” James took a shot of his whiskey and turned to him. “What about you? Enjoying being D.I.?”

Greg snorted and nearly choked on the whiskey.

“Enjoy is a strong word,” he warned. “I wish you told me how bloody awful the paperwork is.”

“You mean you didn’t get that from all those times I shouted ‘this paperwork is bloody awful!’ from my office?” James shot. Greg grinned. “You’re doing a fine job mate, though I did worry about you after seeing the news this week. This case must be a nightmare. Is that why you needed a drink?”

If only.

“I feel like my bloody head might explode,” Greg admitted. He gazed at his whiskey glass, wondering how pathetic it made him that his only friend he trusted pouring his heart out to was someone he hadn’t seen in six months. “Look, I know we aren’t best mates or anything, but do you mind if I get something off my chest?”

“Go for it.”

They both finished off their whiskey and ordered new shots.

“I’ve started seeing someone,” Greg said, feeling breathless. His chest tightened as James’ eyes went wild. “I know it hasn’t been that long since Christie, but it’s someone I’ve known for quite some time. I guess it’s just one of those situations where you just never realised how you felt.”

James nodded but didn’t reply, and the bartender brought them their next. It was embarrassing to have this conversation with James, but he had to tell _somebody_ about Mycroft.

“So tell me about her!” James said, slapping him on the shoulder.

He winced, already feeling uneasy about this.

“Actually…” Greg took a deep breath, trying to work up the courage. After staring at the whiskey for too long he finally decided to say fuck it. If he ended up wasted tonight it wouldn’t be the worst thing that happened this week. “Actually, I’m seeing another man.”

The silence that fell between them was deadly. For a moment he worried Greg would get up and free. His friend’s face went pale, his knuckles turned red as he gripped the glass too tightly.

“Jesus Greg,” James whispered. “Sorry, that was rude. I’m…I’m surprised, that’s all.”

“It’s okay!” Greg laughed. “No, no trust me, I was surprised too. It’s okay to be shocked. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable-“

“It doesn’t!” James cut in, a bit too quickly. “Do you mind if I ask…have you been in a relationship with a man before?”

“No,” he confessed. Then his face became hot as he realised that was a lie. “Well, there was an experiment in uni. Or two. But nothing serious. I’ve never really thought about it though. I was with Christie for so long, and before that I was so focused on my career I wasn’t thinking about _anyone_. But with this relationship it’s deferent. And it’s moving very, very fast.”

“Oh so you’ve-“

“Yeah.”

James downed the rest of his whiskey and immediately shut his eyes.

“That’s strong,” James commented. The bartender raised the bottle to pour another, but James waved him away. “I think we’re good for now. So…Greg. I’m guessing you didn’t invite me here just to confess you’re bi.”

“No.” Greg sighed; he began to worry he sounded as pathetic as he felt. “Like I said, it’s moving very fast. I’m not used to that. The women I’ve dated, Christie especially, liked things slow. It’s been mind-blowing and brilliant, but he’s been away for a couple of days so I’ve finally had time to think. I’m becoming attached. It’s like I’m fucking addicted to him, and it’s a bit scary. What if I’m making a mistake?”

James shrugged.

“What if you are?” He replied. “There’s no way to tell with these things, you know that.”

“Yeah I do. I’m just so…I can’t figure it out. Why him, why now? There’s never been another guy before. And he’s the type of person who doesn’t just sleep around. If something happens, if I screw up, would make me a complete arse.”

_Also, I might possibly be beheaded._

“You’re always an arse when you break up with someone,” James said with a snort, “but I think I get what you’re saying. You’re wondering if you’re ready to commit again, but you know he is.”

“Exactly!”

James turned the empty shot glass in his fingers, and Greg waited for him to come up with some brilliant piece of advice. He supposed that was why he liked James’ company. His friend had _lived_. He’d been there before when it came to relationships, marriage, work- everything really. Well, everything except being gay.

“I think you’re ready to commit,” James finally said. “I think that’s why you’re so afraid. You’re worried that it’s wrong to commit to someone else so soon after Christie, but if you’ve found someone, you’ve found someone. It’s okay.”

“It is?”

Nodding, James went on:

“It sounds like he’s good for you, and he’s lucky to have you. You’re a great guy, Greg. I know we don’t see each other much anymore, but I know you deserved better than Christie. I’m happy that you’re happy.”

Happy.

Greg allowed a small smile to cross his face. For a long time being happy again wasn’t something he thought was possible. Hell, after his divorce he didn’t truly feel like he deserved to be happy. And maybe…maybe that was it!

“I’m afraid to be happy,” Greg announced.

“Your divorce was messy, you feel guilty…you need to forgive yourself.”

“Yeah,” Greg whispered. He threw the rest of the whiskey down his throat. “Yeah, maybe I do. Sorry…I think I need to step out and make a call.”

“Go for it,” James smiled.

He slipped out of the pub and into the back alley, where it was at least quiet enough to hear himself think. It was still early in America. Maybe he could catch Mycroft on his way out of a meeting…

Instead he got voicemail.

 _Don’t screw this up,_ he pleaded to himself.

“Hey…it’s me. I just wanted to say hi and see how today went. I’m sorry your meetings are still going on. Just…call when you get a chance. Or text. Or we can Skype. Now I sound like a desperate teenager. It’s just…I’ve really enjoyed our time so far. Hope I see you soon.”

Greg hung up quickly and closed his eyes. God that must have sounded horrible. He took a walk of shame back into the pub and as soon as he slid back into his seat he let his head fall into his hands. James slid a glass of lager toward him, and he accepted it gratefully.

“You don’t have anything to worry about mate,” James said, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it, like it might comfort him. “Whoever this bloke is, he’s lucky. Is he hot, at least?”

He practically blushed.

“He’s not half bad,” Greg teased. “He’s a bloody good kisser.”

James laughed, and it was refreshing to see he wasn’t uncomfortable talking about this.

“Are you two going to be exclusive?” James asked. “That’s a pretty big step for you.”

“I don’t think so. Actually, I was hoping we could keep this between us. We’re both authority figures in our jobs, and we’re both…we just prefer to keep it private.”

“No problem. Your mum would be proud, though” James said. Greg stared at him, confused. How had he not considered what his mum would think? He didn’t think proud was the right word. Tolerant, maybe. Then again she had never been the biggest Christie fan. When he saw how hesitant Greg was, James offered: “She would! She loves you so much. I remember how much she used to brag about you. Shit, that seems like ages ago.”

“It was ages ago. We’re getting old.” They clung their glasses together in a toast. There’s not much to brag about me these days. I’m afraid I’m a shit D.I.”

“You’re brilliant!”

“Stop trying to make me feel better! If it wasn’t for Sherlock Holmes I’d be nothing.”

“I’ve read about that,” James said with a clear look of disproval on his face. “Are you sure that’s wise, bringing a consultant on board?”

_You don’t know the half of it._

“He brings results,” he shrugged his shoulders, “he’s a good kid.”

_And a recovering addict. And my lover’s brother._

“I’m not going to tell you how to run your department,” James said, holding his hands up in defense. “I’m just going to warn you to be careful. You know how the powers that be feel about consultants.”

“Oh trust me, I know.”

His boss wasn’t the only one giving him shit about Sherlock. Sally and Anderson, the press, even Mycroft himself didn’t hesitate to express their apprehension about having a consultant on board. But the kid was a genius, and he had the greatest work ethic he had seen in a long time. He drove himself just as crazy over cases as Greg did. While the rest of his team whined about late nights and not getting paid enough, Sherlock ran around London at all hours of the night for free. He might be lazy at home, and he had demons just like everyone else, but even if Sherlock couldn’t admit it, he was dedicated.

“Well, you’re doing a fine job,” James said, raising his glass to him again, “and you have nothing to feel guilty about. Date this guy, fall in love. You can’t afford to wait. Life isn't as long as you think.”

_I think I already am in love._

“Thanks,” Greg said. “Really, that’s exactly what I need to hear.”

His mobile buzzed in his pocket, and his heart leapt. He was saddened to see it was just a text, but what it said was enough for him:

 _Wrapping up meetings. Home tomorrow. Miss you too.-_ MH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg is falling head over heals in love with Mycroft! What did you think of this chapter? Thanks for reading!


	11. Kigurimis

Greg clutched the pillow and closed his eyes, trying to shut his mind off as he waited for the pain to turn to pleasure. Mycroft was breathing hard behind him, and his hands were sweaty against Greg’s arms. He held onto him so hard there would be fingerprints in the morning, but it would be worth it. As his lover’s cock drove deeper into his arse Greg groaned, and Mycroft held him even tighter. It was the first time he’d been fucked like this since uni, and he forgot how _full_ it felt. They had only fucked like this once, and it was with him pinning Mycroft against the bed.

“Can I tell you something?” Mycroft asked. He kissed Greg’s neck, and he shuddered, thinking of the dream and the tongue trailing down his skin. Apparently that was enough of an answer. “I had a dream about you while I was gone. Many dreams, actually.”

He offered a few teasing thrusts, finally letting his cock brush against Greg’s prostate. After letting out a few unceremonious grunts, Greg gasped:

“And what was I doing in these dreams?”

Lips graced his earlobe, and Mycroft murmured:

“The question should have been: what were _we_ doing? I must say that is has been some time since I’ve had a sex dream. You were wearing…what is the word? Kigurimi.”

_“What?”_

He nearly forgot about the sex all together. He couldn’t even picture himself wearing something like that…let alone during sex, no matter what kink Mycroft might have.

“It must have been because of that lovely picture you sent me,” Mycroft confessed. Those lips danced down to his lower back, and Greg moaned. Mycroft thrust harder and harder, and Greg finally let his own hand trail to his cock. He began pumping as his lover growled: “I’ve never been so turned on, and I don’t even know why. Gregory I…I…oh fuck.”

Greg’s body tensed as he felt Mycroft’s cock swell inside him. His lover shuddered and grunted as he came, and the sounds urged him to pump his own cock hard and harder until-

“Mycroft. Fuck.”

He spilled his release into his hand, and his arse thrust back against Mycroft as he rode out his orgasm until he let out a soft cry. A grin was plastered across his face as Mycroft pulled out, and he rolled over to meet his lover.

“You were saying?” Greg asked, tracing a finger down Mycroft’s panting chest.

They kissed, and Mycroft muttered against his lips:

“Shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a secret to share. Sorry I've been so terrible about updating. Life has been insane. I hope you enjoyed the smut for Valentine's Day! I'm hoping to update again tonight if I can stay awake long enough!


	12. Making Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft shares one of his most deepest, darkest, secrets: his job title.

“Mycroft,” he moaned just before his lover’s tongue slipped into his mouth.

Mycroft was becoming _very_ talented at this. They were in Mycroft’s shower, which was quite enormous. Fancy gold tiling, multiple showerheads. His boyfriend’s bathroom was as big as the kitchen in his flat. A massive garden tub sat beside the shower, and Mycroft had already set out a separate set of towels just for him.

“Can you stay over?” Mycroft whispered.

He spun Greg around to gain access to his back. He sucked at a few sensitive spots just as the water turned hot against his skin.

“Up to you,” Greg murmured, “but Sherlock-“

“Oh God, don’t talk about my brother while we’re naked in the shower.” Mycroft planted a few more kisses to his back as his hands held his bare hips. “Gregory, I wanted to tell you something.”

Normally he would be curious, but he was too focused on his lover’s hand, reaching for a bar of soap.

“You couldn’t tell me in bed?” Greg asked.

They were speaking at just above a whisper. The buzz from the whiskey he drank earlier and the high from his orgasm separated him from the serious, nervous, tone of Mycroft’s voice.

“No, Gregory…I want to tell you a secret, but you have to swear to me you won’t tell anyone.”

Carefully, Greg spun himself back around to face Mycroft. Though his own cock was twitching with interest and his skin was becoming flushed, Mycroft looked completely sober. He almost felt used, like he had been offered sex to help deal with whatever he was about to be told.

“Of course,” Greg whispered.

Mycroft raced a hand to his head, brushing it over his hair and down his cheek.

“When I began my job I was told I could only tell the two people closest to me about my position,” Mycroft confessed. “Only one person knows.”

“Sherlock.”

His boyfriend nodded, and Greg felt his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure if it was because of being nervous about whatever Mycroft was going to tell him or the fact that Sherlock had been hiding this secret for years. Mycroft brushed his cheek again, and he resisted the urge to reach up and grab his hand. Whatever he had to say, Greg wanted him to spit it out. He needed to know.

“I’m an intelligence analyst for the British government.”

For a moment, Greg stopped breathing.

“I collect intelligence from multiple intelligence agencies and advise our leaders on the best way to use that intelligence,” Mycroft continued. He looked pale in the face, even more than usual. Greg still couldn’t breathe. “I worked as a spy for some time, but I despised the legwork. Now I use those abilities, those connections, to gain knowledge that can be used for the benefit of Queen and Country.”

“And before?” Greg breathed. “What did you use them for?”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed down to the bottom of the shower, and Greg felt like he might be sick.

“I wasn’t proud of my work then,” Mycroft whispered, gazing into his eyes. “Now I start wars. I end them. I control the economy, I control weapons, I control…”

He trailed off, and Greg was grateful. Otherwise he might have hyperventilated. He let Mycroft keep his hand on his face- for now- but he wasn’t completely sure he was comfortable with being touched right now.

“I control everything,” Mycroft nearly croaked, “and I know it’s early in our relationship to consider you so important in my life, but I see this…I see this lasting. Of anything, you have been caring for my brother, which I will be forever in debt for.”

“I love Sherlock like a brother,” Greg whispered. “He’s young, he’s confused and hurt…but I want him to be safe. You don’t have to thank me, and you don’t have to tell me anything that will put you or your job at risk.”

A flash of gratitude across Mycroft’s face told him he wasn’t too far off radar.

“Like I said, I hope this continues for some time,” his lover confessed, “and I don’t want to wake up one day and realise our entire relationship is based on a lie.”

_It’s barely been two weeks!_ He wanted to scream. But he didn’t have the heart to. They had known each other for so long, and deep down he was as obsessed with Mycroft as Mycroft was with him.

“I appreciate that,” Greg admitted, “but you don’t need to put yourself in danger.”

“It’s not only me.”

Oh.

“I mean it, Gregory, no one can know,” Mycroft said. “No one. You can’t discuss this with Sherlock…you can’t say anything to anyone.”

“I understand,” he nodded, but Mycroft didn’t seem convinced. By now the water was running cool, but neither made any move to step away from the stream pouring over them. “I do, Mycroft. I would never put you or your job at risk. I’m…I’m shocked, Mycroft. I’m not sure what to think. But I would never do anything to put you in danger. You…or Sherlock…or me.”

“I appreciate that.”

The water turned cold as their bodies lingered together without touching.

“So you work with some pretty serious people,” Greg said, “and when you said you were meeting with politicians in Washington-“

“I was meeting with the President.”

_Shit. I was just fucked by someone who talked to the president of bloody America less than twenty-four hours ago._

“I cannot stress how important it is-“

“I know,” Greg interrupted. “Honestly, Mycroft, I know. You brought me into the shower to tell me. I know.”

He raised a hand to his lover’s chest, which finally seemed to calm him down. Their foreheads fell together, and when his hand fell to Mycroft’s shoulder blades he could feel the tension building there.

“My job has taken over my life,” Mycroft murmured into his ear. “My career is what I live for. My career and my brother, of course. I want there to be more, but most importantly, I want you safe. I feel you can only be safe if you know the truth.”

Greg swallowed nervously. He knew there was probably good reason for Mycroft to be so paranoid, but he didn’t want to think about it.

“I appreciate that,” Greg said again.

He felt numb.

“I work with extremely important people,” Mycroft said. “The agencies I work with-“

“MI5?”Greg guessed.

Mycroft nodded.

“….and MI6?”

Mycroft nodded again, and Greg swallowed again.

“All of them,” Mycroft replied. “These agencies of course have their own analysts, many of them in fact, but I am the one the Prime Minister trusts the most. I not only gather intelligence- I administer proper courses of action. I’m like a one-stop source for when the government needs someone to do their dirty work. I’m like a consulting analyst.”

_So that’s where Sherlock got the consulting detective idea._

“That…that kind of job doesn’t exist.”

It couldn’t exist. What gave Mycroft the right to have that kind of power? He didn’t want to think that way, but as a citizen he couldn’t help but to.

“It was created for me.” That sounded all too familiar, and Mycroft must have known because his eyes were glistening. “The job was suggested due to my extensive work with all areas of British intelligence agencies.”

Greg became aware that his breathing was becoming out of control. Mycroft grasped his shoulders but it didn’t help. All he could think of was that he was standing, naked, in a shower with a man who just had dinner with the President of the United States. Who played _golf_ with him. And starting wars? What was that about?

“Are you a civilian or military or-?”

“Civilian,” Mycroft replied.

“So you just do this, without being elected or anything?”

Mycroft looked like he had just been punched in the gut.

“I was appointed by the Prime Minister,” Mycroft confessed. “My job history has given me connections like you couldn’t imagine.”

_I don’t want to._

“I don’t expect you to be okay with this,” Mycroft went on. He placed his hands on Greg’s shoulders, and the gesture felt so intimidating he wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable.

Deep down he felt like he should feel betrayed, or angry, but after the initial shock he felt…safe.

Their eyes met, and he allowed their lips to connect. His body trembled ever so slightly, prompting Mycroft to wrap his arms around him. Reaching behind him, his partner shut off the water, signaling an end to the conversation. Neither man made any effort to step out of the shower. Instead Mycroft deepened the kiss; he shuddered. It felt like Mycroft was apologising with the kiss, and when his tongue suddenly leapt into his mouth he thought his lover must be desperate for forgiveness. A soft moan resonated from the back of Greg’s throat. His consciousness was shouting at him, demanding to know what he was doing.

He placed a hand against the shower wall behind Mycroft. He was becoming hard again, and god it must have been years since he’d gone twice in one night. But he wanted it, _again_ , and another part of his mind warned him that he was addicted. As Mycroft’s tongue worked his mouth, his throat, their bodies pressed together. They nearly stumbled over, and he pinned Mycroft against the wall to help steady them.

Just when he was beginning to struggle to breathe Mycroft slipped out of his mouth. The image of that tongue trailing down his neck hit him once again, but he was too nervous to ask any favours. Instead he thought maybe he could give the favour to Mycroft. Holding him still, Greg shook slightly as his tongue draped from Mycroft’s jaw, slowly down his neck. A series of soft grunts fell from his lover’s mouth, and when he reached the base of his neck he decided it wasn’t enough. Carefully, he began kneeling down, letting his tongue fall down Mycroft’s chest as he did. Mycroft moaned, throwing his head back against the wall, as his tongue drew a straight line down his chest, his stomach, and finally-

“You don’t have to,” Mycroft croaked. “We just…”

Greg ignored him and wrapped his lips around Mycroft’s cock. He sucked at the head first, letting his tongue bat against it as his hands roamed Mycroft’s hips. He pulled back to place kisses long the head, the shaft, his balls. Heart pounding, he shifted so he could continue the kisses against Mycroft’s hips.

“Turn around,” Greg whispered.

“Gregory…”

He grabbed Mycroft’s hips and spun him around. It wasn’t the most ideal place to do this, but he enjoyed the intimacy of it. He drew in a deep breath before placing his lips carefully against one of Mycroft’s arse cheeks, tugging at the skin with his mouth. Mycroft shuddered so he did it again and again until his tongue finally dashed toward the cleft of his arse. His lover gripped the wall as he traced a path down the crack of his arse and back up. He kept going up, up his back and spine until he reached his neck again. When he had come full circle their mouths hovered close together and they both let a few panting breaths before sharing another kiss.

“Mye, I-“ Greg gasped when they broke apart. Bodies flushed, faces red, they fought to catch their breath for a moment. “I feel safe when I’m around you. Emotionally and physically. I guess that makes sense now that…now that I know. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for not lying to me.”

Their lips crashed together in again in a bruising kiss, and he spun Mycroft back around for easier access. Lips dancing, chest heaving, they made out in silence of the bathroom until their bodies shivered.

“Back to bed, I think,” Mycroft finally announced.

Greg could only nod as he wiped a hand across his red, swollen, lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it really only made sense for Greg to know. I know I'm stretching reality a bit, but the thought of their relationship being based of the lie of who Mycroft really was felt too heartbreaking. Also, I always assumed Mycroft is to the British government what Sherlock is to Scotland Yard. I hope you like the idea!


	13. Eating Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unless noted otherwise, this fic has not been betaed or brit-picked so any mistakes are my own.

“Sir…are you going to be alright?”

Greg held onto the window ceil, gripping it so tightly his knuckles looked like they might break. He was just informed that his lead witness for his current murder investigation was found dead. After promising the kid he would be protected, the twenty-five year old was found by the Thames that morning.

_And it’s all my bloody fault._

“Greg?” Sally called softly.

It was only ten AM and his day was already hell. He truly wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this, the constant death, the constant failures. His mobile buzzed, and his heart leapt to his throat. He jumped; his hands shook as he read the text:

_Black car out back. Get in. –MH_

Greg hesitated. God he wanted nothing more than to be with Mycroft right now, but he did not have time to be kidnapped today.

_Is this a kidnapping?_

_No. I brought ice cream. –MH_

_Isn’t it a bit early for dessert?_

_…I might have a problem. –MH_

A soft smile spread across Greg’s face.

“I need a smoke,” Greg lied.

Sally’s eyes narrowed. She knew about his many failed attempts at quitting, but she didn’t say anything as he fled his office. As promised, a black sedan waited for him just out of the view of any public crowd that might wonder by the Yard. A weight fell from his shoulders as he slipped in the backseat and saw Mycroft holding two ice cream sundaes.

“I saw the news,” Mycroft admitted. “This case doesn’t seem to be much easier on you than the last.”

“They never are.”

He accepted a strawberry sundae and wasted no time in unwrapping the plastic spoon.

“My witness was found dead this morning,” Greg explained. “I now have no witness, I have a suspect who’s so lawyered up he’s made himself untouchable, and there are two grieving families depending on me to find justice for their dead kids. Fuck, some days I hate my job.”

Mycroft slipped a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth and offered a sympathetic smile.

“But then you’ll solve the case, and you’ll offer two mothers closure.”

“There’s no closure when your kid has been murdered.”

They fell silent. Greg realised he really wasn’t up for talking about this. The news was too raw, the pressure too stressful, and he knew another sleepless night was waiting for him when he got home.

“My mother used to think ice cream solved all our problems,” Mycroft confessed. He took another spoonful, and Greg thought about the number of times he heard Sherlock make fun of his brother’s love for sweets. “Whenever I got into fights at school, whenever Sherlock was upset, whenever our father yelled too much, she always had a scoop of ice cream waiting for us.”

The thought made him appreciate Mycroft’s gesture even more.

“Your mum sounds lovely.”

“She was.”

This conversation was becoming far too depressing too fast.

“I need a fucking break,” Greg whispered, closing his eyes as he savoured the sweetness of the sundae.

“I was hoping to at least give you a small one,” Mycroft replied.

His eyes flashed open, and Greg smiled for the first time that morning.

“You’re brilliant, love,” he murmured.

Mycroft’s eyes lit up at the term of endearment, and they leaned in for a quick kiss. In his pocket his mobile buzzed again, and Greg knew his moment of peace was going to be over too quickly.

“Sorry,” Greg sighed. “I really do have to deal with this. Turn on the telly in a half an hour, and at least you’ll be able to see me on screen.”

“I appreciate seeing you however you can.”

His heart fluttered, and he offered Mycroft another kiss before he stepped back out of the car. He received more than a few suspicious looks when he re-entered his office carrying ice cream, but somehow it gave him enough energy to believe that maybe he could get through this after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	14. Genderswapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg and his wet dreams...he's going to get himself in trouble one day! ;)

_Greg woke with a moan and stretched his arms. His body was wrapped in red silk, and his head rested on what felt like a mountain of clouds. He had never slept so well, and his body never felt so relaxed. Rolling over, Greg reached out to run his fingers through his lover’s auburn hair and smiled. Another groan resonated in the empty morning air and his bedmate turned toward him…_

_His heart stopped._

_It wasn’t Mycroft he was in bed with, but a woman. A woman with a beautiful pale complexion, comparable to Mycroft’s. Her ginger hair was cropped just below her ears, and her eyes, her dark eyes were just like his._

_“Good night for you too, huh?” The woman whispered._

_Greg was panicking. He sat up, chest heaving, and tried to calm himself. It was at least refreshing to realise he was in Mycroft’s room, but then why…?_

_“You don’t remember my name, do you?” She teased. Sitting up, the woman leaned over to place a kiss on his nose. “Maya. It’s okay. My head’s pounding from those drinks. How do you feel?”_

_He couldn’t answer. When he was younger there were times when he would have done anything to wake up with a woman this gorgeous by his side. But this wasn’t right. What about Mycroft?_

_He didn’t have time ask as a hand slipped beneath the sheets to grope him, and Maya’s noise nuzzled against his cheek. His body tensed as she stroked his cock, just like_ he _did._

_“You loved this last night,” Maya said. “Remember?”_

_No._

_“Let me remind you,” she whispered in his ear._

_Her tongue wrapped around his ear. She kissed his jaw, just like he liked, and drew a slow line down his neck with her tongue…just like in his dream with Mycroft. But it didn’t feel good, it felt wrong._

_A mobile rang from the side table, and Greg bit back a sigh of relief. But to his horror, Maya simply put the phone on speaker and continued to bite at his chest._

_“Agent Holmes?” Fucking shit. It was the Prime Minister! “I would like to get your opinion of the latest phase of Project Blue.”_

_“It’s a go.”_

_Maya’s eyes fluttered up to meet Greg and she winked. Her hand picked up pace as it brushed up and down his cock, fingers rolling across the head, fingertips on his balls…_

_“Look,” Greg whispered._

_The Prime Minister spoke up again, and Maya raised a finger to her lips._

_“Are…are you quite sure, Ms. Holmes?”_

_“You said sleep on it,” Maya replied. She wrapped an arm around Greg’s waist. “And I did.”_

_“Well then,” the Prime Minister whispered. “I suppose we are at war.”_

_Greg’s eyes nearly popped out of his head; he wasn’t sure he was still breathing. Maya simply hung up without so much as a goodbye and proceeded in climbing on top of him…_

Greg shot straight up in bed with such a force that Mycroft jerked awake as well.

“Oh fuck,” Greg whispered, running a hand over his head.

“You okay?” Mycroft murmured. His lover rubbed his hands on his face and turned to the alarm clock, grimacing at the time.

“Yeah just…strange dream.” He couldn’t help but to laugh, and he wondered if it would be too out of line if he told Mycroft about it.

“’m afraid I had too much to drink,” Mycroft said, slurring his words. Greg giggled. Yes, perhaps the scotch after the whiskey and wine had been a bit much. “’m gonna go…”

He climbed out of bed and Greg reached up, managing to brush his hand down his lover’s back and arse before he slipped away to the bathroom. His own head pounded, and a cool sweat broke across his skin.

The drinks! That must have been it. He always had odd dreams after drinking. After all, he didn’t even enjoy the dream sex, right? He was utterly disturbed by it, and maybe that was the whole point of the dream. He wanted Mycroft, through and through.

At the sound of someone retching their guts out he chuckled as he realised he was probably needed. With a sigh he slipped out of bed. Was it wrong that part of him yearned for another drink?

“Mye?” He called. “Love?”

Sure enough he found Mycroft on the floor, with one of his massive towels wrapped around his body. A sloppy, drunken, grin was plastered across his lover’s face, and Greg couldn’t help but to laugh.

“You’re wasted!” Greg giggled.

“I haven’t been this drunk in…in…a long time,” Mycroft slurred. “I used to slap Sherlock for coming home like this. Course he was high, not drunk.”

“Hitting people is bad,” Greg said, shaking a finger at him.

Now _he_ sounded drunk.

“Are we too old for this?” Mycroft asked.

Greg slid down to the floor next to his boyfriend and wrapped an arm around him. Mycroft’s head rested on his shoulders, and Greg wasted no time in combing through his hair.

Yes, now _this_ felt right.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Greg whispered.

“Let me guess…you’re secretly CIA and you’ve been sleeping with me as part of an elaborate set up?”

He blinked.

“No…I dreamed that you were a woman.”

“Oh, that’s a relief, because I keep dreaming exactly what I just told you.”

Greg laughed, though he didn’t have a clue why. He basked in the comfort that neither one of this would remember this conversation in the morning.

“You had sex with me while declaring war!” Greg shot.

“I once had a dream that you arrested me for speeding,” Mycroft said. “And you…you…”

He leaned up and whispered the rest of his dream to his ear. It was so slutty and embarrassing that Greg’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head, and even in his fuzzy state of being he could feel himself being turned on.

“So I’m not the only one having ridiculous sex dreams?” Greg said, swallowing nervously.

“No…” Mycroft reached over, placed a hand on his cock, and god there was no way they were doing this here _again_. “Now, tell me more about this female Mycroft. What did she do to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no clue what to do with this prompt, but I dunno which I like better, the sheepish Greg who is embarrassed about his sex dreams or drunk!Mycroft. I hope you enjoyed it too! Thanks for reading!


	15. In A Different Style Of Clothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm so terrible at updating this daily! This is unbetaed. Sorry, like Greg I haven't been sleeping so if you see anything that looks strange feel free to point it out.

One more late night. One more late night, and he would go insane. Greg was so emotionally drained that he was shaking. He even phoned for a cab because he didn’t feel up for driving. He was already at fifteen hours of overtime for the week, and the case was going nowhere. He was overworked, his team was overworked, the victim’s family was understandably furious at him, and he and Sherlock were at the point where they almost couldn’t be in the same room together. After running out of leads he brought his consultant onboard, and within an hour Sherlock brought the mother to tears and had one of his sergeant’s threatening to put in for a transfer. The two shared a cab ride home, during which he couldn’t help but to lash out at Sherlock about his carelessness.

“She just lost her fucking son!” Greg exclaimed, slamming the door behind them as they stormed into the flat.

He immediately headed to the fridge for a beer while Sherlock planted himself on the sofa.

“She’s our best chance at finding out what happened to him!” Sherlock shot. “She was the last person to see him alive.”

“She’s his mother, and he was shot dead in an alley.”

“She’s hiding something and you know it!”

The rim of the can lingered against his lip. He felt sick inside, and Greg realised why it was he felt so awful all day: Sherlock was right. He wasn’t looking into this case deeply enough. He wasn’t taking risks.

“You know it, Lestrade,” Sherlock said again, jumping up from the sofa. “Look…I know you’re overworked. You have a stakeout planned at the kid’s school tomorrow, but that won’t do you any good. Let me stake out the home.”

“It’s a hard call-“

“It’s not. You just can’t admit you were wrong!”

Greg swirled around, grabbed the closest item- a plate- and chucked it across the room. It was so out of character for him that his eyes widened, and they both flinched when the dish went crashing into a wall.

“Jesus,” he whispered, bringing a hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I-“

“I’m going out,” Sherlock announced.

“Sherlock!” He called, desperate. There was broken glass all over the floor, his eyes were so tired they were burning, but he felt ten times worse when Sherlock turned to face him and saw his consultant wasn’t looking too good himself. His face looked very warn, his cheeks seemed sunken and his bones were too frail. He had been losing weight, and Greg didn’t even notice. Sherlock didn’t look quite healthy, and he knew the stress of this new case wasn’t helping. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not fair to be brought into a middle of a case like this. Everyone has been worked to death. We’re all on edge. I’m not thinking clearly.”

Sherlock stared at him, and for a single moment he thought he saw a flash of appreciation in his eyes. Instead his consultant threw open the door- and stopped.

Mycroft was standing in the doorway, leaning on his umbrella. He was wearing denims, trainers, and an Oxford alumni hoodie. A tissue was wadded up in his hands, and his nose was red like he was stuffed up.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded.

After letting out a round of coughs, Mycroft hoarsely explained:

“Talk to you.”

He coughed again and leaned further against his umbrella for support.

“You sound like you have the flu or something,” Greg announced, trying to sound casual.

Mycroft’s eyes flashed up to meet his and all of Greg’s worries began shifting toward his boyfriend.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Mycroft whined.

“Come inside,” Greg said, walking toward the door. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I…” Mycroft began, but he stopped suddenly, wrapping an arm around his abdomen. Greg had a feeling that Mycroft wasn’t the type to accept sympathy when he was ill, so he knew if he was this distraught he must have gotten it pretty bad. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Not at all.”

His boyfriend shoved past him, and Greg had to resist the urge to run after him.

“Bloody hell,” Greg shook his head. “He looks really ill.”

Sherlock stared at the floor, and he had a feeling the younger Holmes was being shy about caring for his brother.

“I need some air,” Sherlock said, his voice nearly a whisper.

Greg didn’t bother pointing out how cold it was. He let Sherlock go, knowing some air would probably do him good, and dashed into the guest bathroom. He found Mycroft propped up against the tub, and he almost smiled as he flashed back to their drunken affair.

“Alright love?” Greg asked softly.

He fished around in the medicine cabinet for a thermometer and stuck it in Mycroft’s mouth. His boyfriend moaned as his temperature was read, and Greg placed a hand against his warm forehead.

“You’re running a fever,” Greg announced. “You’re staying at my place at least until the fever goes down.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes! Forget about Sherlock, you have the flu.”

“I’ll get you sick!”

“Try to stand up, I dare you.”

Mycroft glared at him, and Greg knew he run him over. He knew how dangerously contagious the flu was, but at the moment all he cared about was making Mycroft comfortable. Greg took one of his hand towels and ran it under some cool water so he could place it against his boyfriend’s forehead.

“Come here,” Greg whispered, pulling Mycroft close so he could rest his head on his shoulder. “When did it hit you?”

“This morning,” Mycroft mumbled. “I feel like I was hit by a train. I haven’t felt this sick in a decade!”

He began rubbing soothing circles on Mycroft’s back, and he couldn’t help but to steal another glance toward his boyfriend’s casual look.

“I’ve never seen you dressed like this before,” he mused. “You look good in jeans.”

“Mmm…I don’t.”

“And you never said you went to Oxford!” Greg protested. 

“My entire body hurts.”

Greg pulled him close and kissed his cheek.

“I really will get you sick,” Mycroft warned.

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “When was the last time someone took care of you while you were sick?”

Mycroft stared into the distance and Greg horrible for him when he realised the answer was a _very long time_.

“Well I’m here for you,” Greg said. “We’ll just tell Sherlock you’re too sick to go anywhere. He’s a bit pissed at me anyway; I doubt he’ll even be around.”

His boyfriend let out another round of coughs before replying:

“I’m sorry, I know he’s difficult.”

“No, he’s brilliant. I’m difficult.”

Next to him Mycroft sank further down until he was laying on the floor, and Greg reached up for a dressing gown that was hanging above them. He draped it over Mycroft, knowing it wasn’t enough.

“I’m sorry I’m so miserable,” Mycroft muttered. “They practically threw me out work this morning because I was so sick. I can’t breathe. I’m cold. I don’t get sick, Gregory, I don’t.”

“I believe you!” Greg teased.

“I never get sick,” Mycroft went on. “I don’t take sick days. I haven’t taken a sick day in fifteen years.”

“It’s okay, love. I’m getting you a blanket.”

“I haven’t had a fever since I was a kid!” Mycroft called hoarsely after him.

His heart pounded as he stepped back into the corridor, and he knew he was far too exhausted to take care of someone who was this sick. But it was _Mycroft_ and he was here, in his flat, dressed in jeans and a hoodie. Greg knew that no part of him should be excited about this, but deep down he was relieved to have Mycroft close.

A round of hacking coughs sounded from the bathroom, and he remembered his mission for a blanket and some water.

“Here,” he offered when he stepped back into the bathroom. He draped the blanket across Mycroft’s body. “Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

He waited for an answer, and after a few silent moments he realised his lover was fast asleep with his knees drawn to his chest and hood over his head.

“This is probably the only time I’ll ever see you dressed like this,” Greg murmured to the silent room. He looked around and sighed, feeling a bit foolish. “I suppose I should stop talking to myself and let you sleep.”

Greg headed toward the kitchen to wash his hands and finish his lager, but he stopped when he saw Sherlock standing at the doorway again.

“How is he?” Sherlock asked, sounding a bit hoarse himself.

“He’ll be okay,” Greg replied. “He came over to talk to you. I guess he just felt a little worse than he thought. I told him he could crash here if it’s okay with you. His fever’s a bit high.”

Sherlock’s face went pale, like the thought truly frightened him.

“He’ll be okay,” Greg said again. “And I am truly sorry. I’ve been acting unprofessional all week. I’m just tired.”

“I know,” Sherlock admitted. “You need sleep. Give me your notes, and I’ll have the case solved by morning.”

Part of him wanted to strangle Sherlock for the suggestion. After days of sleepless nights Sherlock was _not_ just going to solve this case in eight hours.

But then again who cared as long as justice was served?

Sherlock held out his hand, and against his better judgment Greg reached in his briefcase and pulled out the case files he brought home.

“I’m going to catch some sleep. You might want to check on your brother every now and then to make sure his fever doesn’t spike. Make sure he drinks lots of water.”

His flatmate nodded, but Greg couldn’t pretend that he wouldn’t be up all night fretting over Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Casual is a different style considering it's Mycroft...right? :)


	16. During their Morning Rituals

Balancing a glass of water on top a plate of toast, Greg knocked carefully on his bedroom door. Around midnight he had Sherlock help him carry Mycroft into his room. His boyfriend was out cold most of the night with a fever hovering at 39, and Greg felt guilty for waking him but he knew he needed fluids.

“Mycroft?” He called softly. There was no reply as he pushed opened the door.

His heart softened at the sight of his lover wrapped up in his own sheets, clutching the pillow he slept on every night. Mycroft slept with his arms wrapped around the pillow and duvet nearly hiding his face. He quietly pulled open a side drawer to grab a thermometer, but even just placing his hand against Mycroft’s face showed him how warm his body was.

“Mycroft love, wake up,” he whispered.

At last Mycroft stirred. His eyes were a bit milky, and his face was paler than normal. With a groan he rolled onto his back and blinked, clearly confused.

“Where-?” Mycroft attempted, but his throat was too dry.

Greg shoved some water into his hands and watched as Mycroft drank it desperately.

“Where am I?” Mycroft finally whispered.

“My bedroom,” Greg replied. “You came to my flat last night, remember?”

With a shake of the head, Mycroft let out another groan and sank into the pillows.

“No wonder, you were out of it.” Greg stuck the thermometer under his tongue again and waited for it to read. “You came here saying you had to speak with Sherlock and nearly collapsed…38.5- still not good.”

Mycroft glanced down at himself, taking in the hoodie and jeans he was still wearing.

“What the hell am I wearing?” Mycroft whispered.

“I have no idea,” Greg teased. “Did you go to work like that?”

His boyfriend simply shook his head.

“I hope not,” Mycroft moaned. “I remember…I remember going home first. Oh god, my head…”

“Yes, here,” Greg said, fishing out a bottle of medicine from his pocket. “Toast first, then you get the meds.”

“No… _Gregory_.”

He almost grinned at the sound of Mycroft whining like a child.

“Yes,” Greg insisted. “Did you eat yesterday?”

Mycroft only glared at him, but at the same time he wrapped his arms around his stomach and Greg felt guilty.

“Fine,” he sighed. “I’m getting you some more water. I’ll give you some time to wake up, but I’ll leave the toast. Can I get you anything else?”

“A mobile,” Mycroft whispered. “Need to make sure England is still standing.”

“It’s Saturday, I think they’re fine without you. Later I’m going to go out for some chicken soup,” Greg said. “I told Sherlock you needed to stay here until your fever goes down. Quarantine and all that. Don’t want the Prime Minister catching the flu, after all.”

Moaning again, Mycroft buried his head into the pillow.

“Do you mind if I get dressed?” Greg asked.

Mycroft offered a single shake of his head. If the flu could bring even Mycroft Holmes down he was a bit terrified to get it himself, but it was a sacrifice he wanted to make.

He began peeling off his own shirt and pyjama pants, and from the mirror he could see Mycroft watching him. Grinning, Greg picked out a pair of denims and a red jumper.

“Green,” Mycroft suddenly whispered. “Forest green. Looks good…with your eyes.”

Greg pulled out his forest green jumper and his eyes lit up, impressed with the suggestion.

“Thanks!” He replied.

In the mirror, Mycroft kept eyeing him, and part of him was frustrated he couldn’t act on how aroused he was becoming. He stepped into the bathroom again to brush his teeth…and Mycroft kept watching.

“You should sleep,” Greg said, “stop watching me.”

“Not watching.”

“Are too!”

As he finished brushing his teeth he turned back to his boyfriend. His stomach was growling, reminding him of how little he had to eat through the week.

“If I bring my breakfast in here, will you join me and eat the toast?” He asked.

Mycroft’s face scrunched up, but Greg knew he got to him.

“Case?” Mycroft asked.

Greg turned on the telly and wasn’t surprised to see the same shot of Sherlock being escorted out of the Yard. His consultant had been followed by the press all morning, and though he knew Sherlock had to be overwhelmed with the attention his entire team was just grateful the case had come to a close. But at the sign of his brother being hounded by reporters, Mycroft’s eyes lit up with fury.

“He’s fine,” Greg promised. “A colleague is looking after him while they do the paperwork. He had the case solved by daybreak, just like promised. In a way I was a bit jealous, if I’m being honest, but that’s not fair to Sherlock. Results are results.”

He watched as the headline “Stepfather Arrested in Murder Case” flashed across the screen for the hundredth time.

“Sherlock was the only person who wanted to take the investigation in that direction,” Greg sighed. “He’s brilliant, Mye. And now, I get a full day off to take care of you.”

Leaning down, he planted a kiss on Mycroft’s forehead.

“Eggs for me, toast for you,” Greg announced. Mycroft still didn’t look convinced. “Just one piece and I’ll let you off the hook. It will help your stomach. Does anything else hurt besides your head?”

Mycroft hugged the pillow closer and moaned:

“Everything.”

He placed a comforting hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezed it.

“Just rest, love,” he whispered. “I’ll be back in in a few minutes.”

As Greg closed the door behind him his mobile buzzed. It was a text from Sherlock that simply read:

_S.O.S._

_You okay?_ Greg texted back.

No reply. Apparently he had two Holmes brothers to take care of today. He hit the speed dial for Sally’s number and went into the kitchen to make some eggs.

“Greg?” Sally asked. “It’s your day off. One of us should get some sleep.”

“I know,” he agreed. “Look, call Sherlock a cab, will you?”

“He has statements to make!” Sally exclaimed. “Greg, I know the media is celebrating but you should have seen the way he was acting this morning. It was disgraceful.”

“Yes, well maybe if we all took a page from his book we would have closed the case a week ago!” He exclaimed. “Just please, do what I say.”

“He’s making us look like fools.”

“Exactly.”

With a sigh he hung up his mobile and grabbed some eggs from the fridge. It wasn’t moments later before another text alert sounded from Sherlock.

_Thanks….how is Mycroft?_

He stared at his phone, touched. Even when they were trying to get Mycroft’s fever down last night Sherlock didn’t seem to be phased. Greg assumed he was very good at hiding his fears, but it was refreshing to see him express some sincere concern.

_Still has fever. Won’t eat. He just needs rest._ He replied.

There was a pause, and he pictured Sherlock taking this in.

_He likes tea when he’s sick. And tomato soup, not chicken noodle._

Greg remembered asking Mycroft about when was the last time someone took care of him when he was sick, and somehow he hadn’t considered Sherlock was probably the only person who could have helped him. The idea of the two brothers looking out for each other was enlightening…and Greg couldn’t help but to wonder if he could be the person to help bring out that side of them again.

_Thank you. See you at home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even Mycroft Holmes isn't safe from the flu! doctor!Greg to the rescue. Thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying it!


	17. Spooning

“You really shouldn’t be so close to me. I could still be contagious.”

Greg let out a happy sigh as he wrapped his arms tighter around his boyfriend.

“I’ll take my chances,” he murmured.

Mycroft’s fever was finally down enough for him to go back home, but Greg insisted on checking in on him every chance he got. When he stopped by that Sunday night to find Mycroft in bed at 8.30 he knew his boyfriend wasn’t doing as well as he claimed. After refusing to let Greg wait on him they settled for just lying in bed. A few stifled coughs escaped Mycroft, and Greg ran a hand over his forehead.

“Stop doing that,” Mycroft protested. “I’m _fine_.”

“You don’t sound fine!” Greg shot. “Your breathing is still off, you clearly still have a headache, and all you’ve eaten in three days is a few bowls of soup.”

“Not hungry.”

“You’re being a child,” Greg teased. He gazed down at the man in his arms, who was still dressed in the same pyjamas he wore yesterday. In all the time he knew Mycroft he had never seen him so down and miserable. “You’re taking tomorrow off, right?”

Frowning, Mycroft looked up at him.

“Of course not.”

“Mye! You have the flu!”

“I’m fine now, and I’ll be good as new by morning,” Mycroft replied. His arguing was cut off by another round of deep coughs. When he spoke again his voice was raspy. “I can’t afford to take any more time off.”

“You took a grand total of five hours off.”

“I…I…” Mycroft sneezed again and coughed. He pulled his arms and knees closer to his body, and Greg ran his hand through his unkempt hair. “Thank you for taking care of me, Gregory, but I really will be fine by morning.”

“If you say so,” Greg sighed.

For a few moments they lay in silence, only the sound of Mycroft’s wheezing between them. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but he didn’t want to move. Mycroft’s arse rested right at his hips, and any other night he would have teased him, touched him-

“You’re thinking about sex, aren’t you?”

Greg’s eyes went wide, and Mycroft let out a dry laugh.

“I can feel you against me,” Mycroft whispered.

Suddenly his lover shifted and turned toward him. Greg raised a hand to caress his cheek and Mycroft…coughed, again.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said through coughs. He rolled over onto his back and breathed deeply.

“Don’t worry,” Greg said, running a hand across Mycroft’s chest.

They gazed at each other, and he raised a finger to Mycroft’s red nose.

“I’ll get you sick,” Mycroft said for the dozenth time.

“I’m fine.” He tried to kiss him, but Mycroft placed a finger to his lips. A smile slipped across his face, and he wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders.

Even through Mycroft’s tired, red, eyes there was a twinkle as his hand reached over and landed on the erection trapped in Greg’s trousers.

“Don’t tease,” Greg warned. But Mycroft just groped him once, twice…and his hand drifted down Greg’s thigh just as a cough erupted from deep within his chest. “You’re not up for this, Mycroft, it’s fine.”

With a moan Mycroft rolled over, and Greg shifted so their bodies fit together again.

“You can get off if you need to,” Mycroft mumbled.

“I’m not just going to have a wank while you’re sitting here, miserable.”

But _fuck_ did he need to.

Mycroft offered a single, playful, thrust backward to meet him, and Greg had to steady himself by grabbing onto his shoulders.

“Don’t,” Greg growled into Mycroft’s ear. Brushing a hand through Mycroft’s hair again, he whispered: “I’ll let you make it up for me when you’re better.”

He expected a moan, a sigh, a shudder- something- but when he got nothing he sat up to find out what was wrong.

And he smirked when he got his answer.

Once again, Mycroft was fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Glad you guys are enjoying the Mystrade :) Greg's healing powers will work soon. What do you think so far?


	18. Doing Something Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be one of my top favourite chapters so far! It's not betaed or brit-picked though!

Greg blinked as another drip of water fell on his face. Next to him his boyfriend breathed heavily, one hand rested on his chest and another on a box of tools. Around them lay a mixture of wrenches, washers, and soaked towels. It was two hours since the toilet decided to overflow, and exactly one hour and fifty-five minutes since Greg swore he could fix the problem in five minutes. Now after finally managing to get the toilet back into one piece they managed to make it overflow _again_ and the leaking bowl was just inches from Greg's face.

“I think I might hate you,” Mycroft rasped. His throat was still sore thanks to the drainage from three days of being sick. “I told you we should have called a plumber.”

“I refuse to be beaten by a bloody toilet!” Greg exclaimed. He punched the base of it.

His boyfriend’s head flopped to his side, exposing a sloppy grin and a nose red from sneezing. He looked positively ridiculous, and Greg couldn’t help but to burst out laughing.

“I’m calling a plumber,” Mycroft announced, getting to his feet.

Greg jumped up and steadied him just in time before he could slip on the floor.

“I’ll finish cleaning up this mess,” Greg offered. “I really do think if I tried just one more time-“

“No!” Mycroft cried with a soft, hoarse, voice. He snatched the wrench from Greg's hands and tossed it out of reach.

“Mye!” Greg whined.

He fully realised they looked like two kids fighting over a toy, but he was determined to finish what he started.

“You flooded the entire room!” Mycroft protested.

“Technically, you were the one who kept flushing when the thing was clearly overflowing…”

There was a twinkle in Mycroft’s eye as he hid the wrench behind his back.

“You should still be in bed,” Greg said, taking hold of Mycroft’s shoulders. “You’re still pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

Greg took a step forward but moved too fast, nearly slipping when he accidently kicked on of the towels out of the way. Mycroft caught him, letting the wrench clatter to the floor.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Greg sighed, “I’ll let you call a plumber if you let me call a doctor.”

“Fine,” Mycroft shot. “I’ll call the plumber first.”

He took a moment to wash his hands before taking out his mobile and calling the first local plumber he found online. As he made an appointment Mycroft washed his hands beside him, and the two kept stealing glances in the mirror…like bloody teenagers. When he hung up the phone Mycroft pulled him close, offering him their first kiss in what felt like ages.

“Thank you for trying,” Mycroft kissed his nose as they broke apart. “Although I think it’s safe to say that neither of us were meant to be plumbers.”

“No,” Greg snorted, dragging an arm across his sweaty face. “My dad would be disappointed- he could fix anything. Oh the names he would call me if he knew I couldn’t accomplish something as remedial as an overflowing toilet.”

“Well the plumbing in this house is ancient,” Mycroft confessed. “It’s been in my family for centuries. I used to tell Sherlock a ghost haunted this room, you know.”

“Really?”

The room had been completely remolded, but the gold-rimmed mirror was vintage. He could just picture the spirit of a little old lady peering through it, and he couldn’t help but to shiver.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, “legend has it our great uncle committed suicide in this very room. The story isn’t true though, today’s records show he died of cholera… though he probably would have spent his dying days in what is now my bedroom.”

Greg nearly choked at the thought.

“It’s getting late,” he announced quickly. “Call your doctor in the morning if you still have that cough tomorrow.”

He side-stepped some towels and shoved past Mycroft. For the first time ever, he couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.

“You can’t seriously tell me you’re afraid of ghosts!” Mycroft said. His hoarse whisper made the house seem even emptier and larger than it already did. “Is that why you don’t like wandering the house by yourself after dark?”

“I…” Greg looked around. The Holmes manor was one of the oldest homes in the region, and most of the house still looked that way. The areas Mycroft hadn’t updated- the attic, the basement, and some of cupboards and first floor rooms, still looked straight out of a horror film set in the 1800s. Not that he would ever admit it. “I just don’t want to invade your personal space, that’s all.”

It was a horrible lie, and Mycroft wasn’t convinced.

“Oi!” Greg exclaimed. “You actually have a bookcase that leads into a hidden room! What am I supposed to think?”

Mycroft just chuckled, his eyes dark and his lips curled up in a wicked smile. He definitely seemed loads better than the day before, but Greg could still tell how easily exhausted he was.

“And it’s starting to get dark now, thank you very much,” Greg pointed out, “and I don’t know what kind of spirits I’ve upset by messing about in the loo so I’m going to go home to my incredibly not spooky flat.”

“My brother lives in your flat. That easily makes it spookier than my house.”

He had a point.

Greg forgave him by leaning in for one final kiss.

“Ring me in the morning,” he whispered as they broke apart, “and send me the bill for the plumber.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Mycroft whispered back.

His partner held him in a tight embrace for another moment, and though he knew it was getting late he was reluctant to let go.

“Thank you for looking after me,” Mycroft murmured. “And I promise you there are no such things as ghost.”

Greg grinned.

“Walk me to my car?” He asked. “Just in case?”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. Their hands fell together as they headed down to the main level. “Have I told you about the cemetery in the garden?”

For a moment he froze in place, and Mycroft’s hoarse laughter haunted him all the way back home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This won't be their last time attempting to fix something! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	19. In Formal Wear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seriously failing at this, aren't I? Life has been insane lately. This chapter is a quickie...literally ;) Once again, un-betaed!

“This is why I shouldn’t go out on weeknights,” Greg giggled.

A sloppy grin spread across Mycroft’s face as he struggled with opening his own front door.

“I don’t think I’ve ever gone out on a Tuesday night in my life,” he confessed.

They tumbled into the dark house, and Greg giggled again as Mycroft flipped on the lights. As the house came to life his boyfriend spun back around, catching him in a soft kiss.

“I’m glad you’re back on your feet,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft’s hands roamed round to his back, grasping at the jacket of his suit.

“You look lovely,” Mycroft sighed into his ear.

A soft moan escaped Greg’s throat as his partner sucked at his lower lip. Mycroft’s hands danced back around and reached for the first button of his jacket.

“Dinner was amazing,” Greg whispered when they broke apart for air.

They shared a series of tiny kisses as Mycroft helped him shrug his tux jacket off. After hanging it carefully on the doorknob Greg got to work undoing his shirt buttons. The normally drafting foyer was suddenly warm, and when Mycroft’s lips attacked his neck to suck at the sensitive skin a heat hit him like someone threw a bucketful of lava at him. He gasped and his eyes fluttered to the back of his head. He felt vulnerable…he felt _young_.

“Mycroft,” he begged quietly when his shirt fell to the floor. His tie went next, and Greg kicked off his shoes.

“You look very nice tonight,” Mycroft’s breath was hot against his face. “Thank you for indulging in a night at the symphony with me.”

_It was worth it! SO worth it._

“Couldn’t let you go alone,” Greg said before letting out a throaty: “ _Mye!”_

Mycroft’s hand fell on the erection hidden inside his trousers, and he clung to his boyfriend, kissing him desperately as that hand began massaging him gently. As Mycroft pulled away a strong whiff of whiskey hit him, and Greg choked back a cough.

“We _might_ drink too much,” he teased. He kissed Mycroft’s jaw and began a trail of kisses down his chin. His fingers followed in pursuit, first pulling off his boyfriend’s tie and then getting to work on his jacket and shirt. When at last they were both standing in just their trousers, Greg acted first by undoing Mycroft’s zip.

“Greg,” Mycroft whimpered.

He tried to grab onto him as he fell to the floor, but Greg ignored him. Breathing hard, he tugged Mycroft’s already throbbing erection out of his trousers and let it dangle before him for a moment before he dove in. Mycroft was _hard_ , and the thought of him being in this state all the way home made this so much hotter. With a groan Mycroft tensed under his touch, and Greg grabbed onto his hips to steady himself. The first time the cock hit the back of his throat he gasped, and a sharp heat hit him so quickly he felt like he might faint. The sting of salt hit the tip of his tongue as he pulled off to lather the shaft with a series of quick licks. Soft whimpers bounced through the walls. Encouraged by the small sounds, Greg tucked on his balls, sucking them slowly before returning to the shaft.

There was a horrendous floral-pattern vintage chair next to the coat rack, and Greg helped them both walk backward until he could push Mycroft down into it. Throwing back his head, his boyfriend let out a low sigh as he took his cock deeper into his mouth. He unceremoniously shoved his own trousers and pants past his hips and grabbed onto his cock while he sucked on the shaft of his mouth. Suddenly Mycroft began tugging himself away from Greg’s lips until only the head remained, and he desperately licked at it as the cock was taken away from him.

“Mye!” He gasped in protest.

Before he could argue anymore the cock was shoved back into his mouth. He gagged a bit but quickly got his rhythm back. In the chair Mycroft shifted, pulling his trousers and pants down past his hips to give Greg access to his arse. The position couldn’t have been comfortable, but he didn’t seem to mind. Mycroft reached down to take one of Greg’s fingers in his hand and drag it to his lips. Another groan escaped him as Mycroft sucked gently before dropping it back down, showing him where he wanted it to go. As he pressed the first finger in he could feel his boyfriend’s muscles tense around it, and he teased at the opening of his arse to encourage him to relax. Greg continued sucking on the cock as he fingered him.

“Gregory!” Mycroft panted desperately. He pumped his hips just slightly enough to gain friction as the finger slipped in and out of him. He could feel the muscle loosening, relaxing, as he pushed in a second finger. His lover bit his lip and threw his head back against the wall, grasping the arms of the chair as he did. “O _-oh!_ ”

It was his only warning as hot streaks of cum hit his throat, and Greg somehow managed to swallow it all down without gagging. When Mycroft pulled out a few remaining streaks stained his lips, and Greg gasped for breath as he dragged a hand across his mouth.

“On your feet,” Mycroft whispered; Greg shuddered as he stood. A fierce kiss was planted onto his lips. Their erections became trapped between them. They looked ridiculous, standing by the door of Mycroft’s family home, Greg with his trousers and pants down around his ankle and Mycroft with his cock hanging out of his. Greg’s heart pounded as he waited for his next command. “Did you enjoy that?”

Mycroft looked positively drunk with arousal as the moonlight shifted across his face at just the right angle, and Greg was still shaking as he nodded. He was painfully of aware of how much he enjoyed the dominate side of Mycroft, and if he wasn’t careful he might lose himself to it completely.

Leaning in to speak into his ear, Mycroft murmured:

“Touch yourself.”

Sparks of arousal shot through him as his hand fell on his own cock again, and Greg began pumping himself slowly. He gasped a bit at the relief and was beginning to double his efforts when Mycroft grabbed his shaft and tugged, bringing him to an explosive climax. He fell against his lover with a cry, and Mycroft hold him as he simply hung on, out of breath.

“F-fucking shit,” Greg stammered.

Mycroft kissed the sensitive spot of skin, just behind his ear, as a reward, and Greg shuddered one last time. As he came down from the high of his orgasm his senses were restored.

“How long can you stay?” Mycroft asked.

It was already eleven, and the reality of having to be at work by at least six was nagging at the back of his mind.

“Not long,” he confessed.

His cock softening, the sweat on his back was turning cold, and exhaustion overwhelmed him.

“You should go home and get some sleep,” Mycroft suggested, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “Thank you for tonight, Gregory, really. You have no idea how much I needed to get out.”

“Get some sleep yourself,” Greg replied. “You shouldn’t overdo it.”

Mycroft glanced down at the state of his suit and laughed.

“I think we’re well past that, aren’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	20. Dancing

“Congratulations, Sir,” Donavan said with a grin peering from her lips.

“Thanks!” He replied. A sergeant high fived him on his way into his office, and he couldn’t hide his smile as he strode inside and slammed the door, exclaiming: _“Yes!”_

The blinds in his office were drawn so he felt no shame in breaking out into a happy dance that made him look half drunk.

“I’m brilliant,” he murmured, pumping his fist into the air.

Just as he mastered a couple of spins on his heels he caught a glimpse of Mycroft in the corner of his eye.

“Bloody hell!” He exclaimed, running a hand over his head. His heart stopped for a moment in shock. Mycroft leaned against the far corner of his office, umbrella in one hand and cup of coffee in the other. “I…I didn’t know you were here.”

“Obviously,” Mycroft replied coolly. He nodded at the coffee. “I would have brought you one but that might have looked suspicious.”

“Not as suspicious as this will.”

Before Mycroft could protest Greg strode over to him, pinned him against the wall, and kissed him hard. They gazed at each other as they broke apart, and Greg swallowed, nervous as he came to his senses.

“You’re in a good mood,” Mycroft mused.

“Yes, I just testified in a trial and it went brilliantly,” Greg said. “It was that robbery-turned-murder I was telling you about. I’m on a roll with these cases! I almost don’t want to celebrate, I’m afraid I might jinx myself.”

“Of course you’re going to celebrate!” Mycroft said, grasping his arms. “Just not with me, I’m afraid.”

Greg’s stomach sank as he asked quietly:

“You’re not leaving the country, are you?”

“Just for the night,” Mycroft reassured. “I’ll be back in the morning, if you’re up for an early breakfast?”

He was up for anything, after winning that trial.

“Sure,” he nodded. “Good luck.”

They kissed again, and for a brief moment he was desperately curious about what would take Mycroft out of the country at a moment’s notice for such a short time, but he knew he couldn’t ask.

“Congratulations,” Mycroft breathed. From the twinkle in his eye, Greg could tell Mycroft truly meant it, and he appreciated that more than anything else anyone said to him that day. “I’m afraid I must go but please, continue with the dance.”

Grinning madly, Greg did a quick shoulder dance before spinning back around to his desk.

“I will see you tomorrow, Gregory,” Mycroft offered.

Their eyes met once again, and Greg replied:

“Yes, I will see you tomorrow.”

As his lover left his office he tried not to let his spirits get down. Today was set to be a fantastic day, and he told himself having breakfast with Mycroft tomorrow should only be something to look forward to.

He pumped his fist in the air again as he settled into in his chair and logged onto his email.

“I’m bloody brilliant,” he mumbled to himself.

Leaning back, he crossed his hands behind his head and decided that nothing was going to stop today from being perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!


	21. In Battle, Side By Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I hope you have fun reading it! This chapter is an important turning point in their relationship.

The last thing Greg remembered was parking his car outside the designated breakfast spot he and Mycroft decided on. Mycroft was unusually late so he finally decided to go in for a cup of coffee, but as soon as he stepped out everything went black.

When he came to the room he was in was cold, silent, and damp. A draft of cool air hit his chest, and he realised his shirt had been torn to shreds. He tried to move his arms but they were tied around a chair, and when he opened his mouth to scream he was muted by a gag.

And Mycroft was sitting across from him, also tied and gagged, with a nasty gash running down the side of his face. He was breathing heavily, out of control, and Greg’s heart started pounding. He tried to scream again, but Mycroft’s eyes pleaded for him to remain calm.

How could he, when two men entered the room, both holding guns? He knew why there were two- one for Mycroft…and one for him. The two men were around his age and clearly of Middle Eastern descent. Sure enough, the younger of the two men strode over to take his place by him while the older, more vulgar, looking one stood in front of Mycroft. He began saying something in what could have been Arabic, and his finished by spitting at Mycroft’s feet. He yanked the gag off Mycroft’s face and shouted at him again. Obviously having him in the room was making Mycroft anxious, but not anxious enough to speak, and so he was hit again.

Greg couldn’t help it: he flinched himself, and the man behind him snickered. His lover was punched again in the gut, and Greg felt sick inside.

Suddenly a gun was at his own temple, and he remembered why he was here. Mycroft began shouting in a language he didn’t understand. He was punched again, and again, and Greg let out a muffled scream against the gag for the man to stop.

The captor shouted something else at Mycroft, and the gun dug harder against his face. His entire body tensed up. He blinked rapidly, sweat trickled down his forehead. His heart was pounding so fast his chest hurt, and while part of him pleaded for Mycroft to confess whatever it was the men wanted the other knew it was for the good of their country that Mycroft remain silent.

Mycroft received another punch to the face, and an arm was suddenly around Greg’s neck. Between the threat of a bullet and the arm choking him, he felt himself slipping away from consciousness.

In the back of his mind he heard shouting in a language he didn’t understand as his vision danced before his eyes. There was the sound of fist against skin, and Greg could only cling to life, feeling helpless. Mycroft screamed something at his captor and through blurry eyes Greg could see his face was now bloody and bruised. Blood clashed with his ginger hair, and his skin was horrifically pale. Mycroft’s nose looked broken, and he would be sporting at least one black eye for some time.

His own heartbeat was fading. The arm tightened around his neck but the gun shook slightly against his face. He felt like he was dangling in front of death’s door, and any moment he would be flung through it, without so much as a chance of fighting for survival.

A mobile rang, and everything stopped. The room fell silent, the arm slipped from his neck, and Greg gasped for breath against the gag. Mycroft’s captor dug inside his pockets and let out what could have been a curse as he answered the call. He spoke quickly, angrily- whatever the caller was telling him wasn’t good. When he hung up he was so pissed he threw the phone at the wall out of anger and grasped Mycroft face, forcing him to meet his eyes. He said something to him that made Mycroft’s eyes sharpen, like he was personally offended.

The captor said something to the man holding Greg, and he gasped as he felt the bonds around his hands loosen. They were being moved! A wave of adrenaline crashed through him as he realised this was their chance, and while the threat of a bullet still haunted him he knew he had to do something.

As soon as one hand was free he heard the cling of handcuffs, and Greg knew it was now or never. He shoved one elbow back against the man’s ribs, stunning him enough to give him room to spin around and wrestle the gun from his hands. He knew Mycroft’s captor still had his gun, and he had mere seconds before it would all be over.

Literally.

But the man behind him was clumsy, and Greg was easily able to force the gun away. He rounded on the other captor, shooting him squarely in the kneecap. The man behind him grabbed for the gun but Greg was faster and hit him over the head with the butt of the weapon.

With both of their captors fallen, Greg fired two more shots to make sure they stayed that way. Mycroft’s breathing was erratic when he arrived at his side and removed his gag.

“How badly are you hurt?” Greg demanded.

“I…I need to find a phone,” Mycroft standard. “My people, they have to know.”

Ignoring him, Greg tilted Mycroft’s face up so he could examine his injuries. His nose was definitely broken, and he was wheezing badly.

“Christ,” Greg murmured as he untied him. “Do you think you can walk?”

Mycroft grabbed his arm and shook his head.

“I can’t keep up. You have to go. There are more of them.”

“And leave you?”

Greg helped him stand, and once he was on his feet Mycroft teetered a bit. Reaching out, Greg caught him before he fell over. Their eyes met, and though he was desperate to talk to him he knew they had to escape quickly.

“Let me help you walk.”

“We’re in a basement,” Mycroft said, shivering. “There’s a staircase…next floor up…fire exit.”

His breathing was so uneven he wasn’t able to finish. Greg knew he needed a doctor, and fast. He snatched the key that was in the captor’s pocket and wrapped an arm around Mycroft.

“I’ve got you,” Greg whispered.

With his other hand he clutched the gun and together they shuffled toward the staircase door in the corner.

They stopped just before the door and looked at each other. He could see how much each movement pained Mycroft, and he wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, comfort him. Instead he unlocked the stairway door looked up to find there was indeed a door at the top of the first set of stairs.

“Come on,” he whispered.

He grabbed onto Mycroft again as they made their way up the stairs. Above them voices were shouting and footsteps were rushing, but they reached emergency exit door first. Greg was surprised to find it unlocked, and they burst outside.

It was still daylight out. The warehouse appeared to be in the middle of nowhere, but there was an unmarked sedan outside.

“What is this place?” Greg asked as his eyes took in the five-story building they were leaving behind.

“There’s someone in the car,” Mycroft whispered.

His eyes lifted up to the car, and Greg’s followed. The car door opened and another Middle Eastern man climbed out, gun in hand. Greg shot first, hitting him in the hip.

“Hurry!” Greg hissed.

He felt like he was running for them both as they rushed to the car. The engine was still running, and he had to practically push Mycroft inside before getting into the driver’s side himself.

There was only one road leading out of the warehouse.

“Jesus, we’re in Bristol,” Greg mumbled, at the sight of the city name written on an old, rusty sign for the building. In the mirror he saw a group of three gunmen descending from the building, and he quickly put the car in drive and pressed his foot on the gas. They sped out of the lot and down the road at speeds Greg had never dared to reach in his own car. “Your head is bleeding.”

“I’m aware.”

Mycroft was slurring his words. His head rest limply against the window as he breathed in and out slowly, sharply. Greg glanced around the car, looking for a mobile, but the interior was bare and empty, save for a single cigarette on the dash.

“God I wish I had a light right now,” he mumbled. He glanced into the rearview mirror to find the warehouse had completely faded into the distance. “Hang in there, love.”

His whisper plea was silenced by the roar of a helicopter. Greg looked up, stunned to find a helicopter hovering directly over them.

“Stop the car,” Mycroft mumbled. “It’s for us.”

Their eyes met, and Greg let out a sigh of relief as he obeyed the order and shut the engine off. They fell out of the car and looked up as the helicopter landed nearby. Greg couldn’t help but to let out a laugh at the irony of it all.

“All I wanted was a cup of coffee,” he confessed, turning to his battered boyfriend. “What the fuck is going on?”

Mycroft gazed at him through swollen eyes as he replied:

“It’s a long story.”


	22. Arguing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This next little story arch will include references to homophobia, but I promise you no offense is meant.

He was wearing a bloody trauma blanket, and he was beginning to understand why Sherlock hated it. Greg felt like a kid, told to cling to his blanket, drink his water, and sit quietly in the corner while the adults work thing out. All he knew was that he was somewhere in MI-5. His holding room was a white padded cell that was no doubt lined with hidden cameras and mics.

When the door finally opened and Mycroft peered inside, Greg wanted to lash out at him. But then he saw the limp in Mycroft’s step, the bruising beneath his eye, his split lip, and a line of stitches running down the right side of his face. It sounded like his breathing was still shallow and unsteady, and Greg felt a twinge of guilt in his stomach.

“Should you be up?” He asked quietly.

Mycroft just silently limped over toward the table he was sitting at. He sat his mobile down with one arm- and a pen and paper in the other. Greg watched as Mycroft hit a few buttons on his mobile, took a glance around the room, and then finally let their eyes meet.

“I’m sure you have questions,” Mycroft stated simply.

He sounded more than a little weak and tired. He looked stiff, and from the bulge under his shirt he no doubt had bandages around his ribs.

“Yes,” Greg admitted. He looked Mycroft dead in the eye, pleading for a straight answer. “Were those men terrorists?”

His boyfriend glanced away, turning to the paper he brought. He slid the document toward him, and anger flickered inside him again.

“A non-disclosure agreement?” Greg demanded. “Are you serious?”

“You have to sign this or I can’t tell you _anything_ ,” Mycroft warned. “Please, Gregory.”

As Greg’s eyes glanced around, finding each nook and cranny where a camera could be hidden, he felt like he was the one being prosecuted.

“Are we being watched?” Greg whispered.

Mycroft shook his head.

“I turned off the cameras and microphones,” he explained. “I’m sorry they made you wait in here. I assure you it’s only policy.”

“I’m sure it is,” Greg remarked dryly, “but I’m not signing any bloody statement until I find out what just happened to us! And I want the truth, Mycroft.”

Folding his hands under his chin, Mycroft’s blackened eyes gazed at him for a moment.

“The non-disclosure only includes things you may have seen while in the building,” Mycroft stated. “It protects agents and-“

“I don’t care!” Greg hissed.

He snatched the paper up and signed it in one swift movement. Mycroft jumped when he slammed the document back onto the table, and Greg let out a long, shaky, breath as he ran his hands over the table.

“Bloody hell, what did I just sign?” He asked quietly.

“You didn’t sign your life away, I assure you,” Mycroft replied. “On the contrary, the government goes to great lengths to help victims of terrorism.”

Greg lifted his head slowly as Mycroft’s words hit him. Now that he heard them out loud they were sickening, and the reality of it couldn’t quite sink in.

“Shit,” he breathed.

“Albeit a poorly planned terrorist attack,” Mycroft went on, his lips turning up ever-so-slightly at his own insult. “The group behind it was small, but their goals massive. The attack involved me and two fellow colleagues, who were both killed in an automobile accident this morning.”

An uncomfortable darkness flashed in Mycroft’s eyes, and Greg had a horrible feeling about what his boyfriend was implying.

_He_ was involved in that car crash too.

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you why I was a target,” Mycroft said, “but I needed to tell you this because I have to know…Gregory, have you noticed anything suspicious in the past few weeks? Has anyone been following you, or has anything out of the ordinary happened with your flat? Your car? Your mobile, even?”

Greg shook his head.

“No, honest, I would have told you!” He ran his hands over his face. At the mention of his mobile, he wondered if he’d ever get it back, or if the government had found it was already- then he remembered. “Hang on. I was using Sherlock’s laptop the other day and it was running all funny. Operation slow, weird pop ups…it was like it had a bug or something.”

Mycroft frozen, and Greg realised that must have implied something very bad. He immediately began texting someone; as his sleeves slid down past his wrist more bruising was revealed. He winced as he sat the mobile down, as though his wrists bothered him more than he let on.

“Someone tried to kill you this morning,” Greg announced. His partner didn’t blink. “Someone tried to kill you and you’re just…doing paperwork! You shouldn’t be here, Mycroft! You shouldn’t be working. Forget about me, you’re the victim here.”

“One of the men you shot died.”

He stiffened as the _pop! pop! pop!_ of gunfire rang through his head.

“Good,” he mumbled, “the bastard deserved it. It should have been all three of them.”

“The other two have been taken care of, as has everyone else who was involved.” Greg stood up so quickly he felt dizzy. His empty stomach leapt to his throat. “I wanted to ensure you that you are safe.”

Greg’s arms wrapped round his torso; he had to lean against the table for support.

“I think I might be sick,” he admitted. Mycroft raised a hand, like he was saying it was alright. “No, really.”

He doubled over and threw up, right there in the middle of the floor. As he closed his eyes the image of the man he shot in the hip flooded his mind. Was he lying on the ground, bleeding, as they drove away? Was he struggling for breath? Why couldn’t he remember?

He threw up again, and Mycroft just sat there, like he was traumatized by it.

“I’m sorry,” Greg rasped as he was finally able to sit up again. He was shaking; a cold sweat crawled down his body. “What was that you said about support?”

At last Mycroft stood up, and a cold hand fell on his arm. Greg glanced down at the mobile, hoping that what Mycroft said about the cameras being off was true.

“I’ll get you the best therapist I can,” Mycroft offered quietly, “I’m sorry you were made apart of this.”

Greg grasped his hand, and he wanted to kiss him desperately. But this wasn’t the place.

“Do I have to go into any sort of…witness protection?” He asked, dreading the answer.

Shaking his head, Mycroft said:

“No. This network has completely deteriorated. But if you would feel safer-“

“No!” He held onto Mycroft’s hands tighter. “No, I want to be right here. We’ll get through this together, you and me.”

Mycroft’s face went pale, and he was afraid he was going to be sick again.

“I don’t think I can,” Mycroft croaked. “Gregory…you were nearly killed today. I don’t know how they found you, or if they simply mistook you for Sherlock, but I can’t risk it happening again. We’ve been together mere weeks, and you’ve already been put in danger on my behalf.”

“I’m a copper, Mycroft! Danger is what I do for a living.”

His boyfriend clasped onto his shoulders, and Greg resisted the urge to shrug him off.

“When I saw them bringing you in my whole world stopped,” Mycroft confessed. “I can’t go through that again. I’ve got to know you’re safe.”

“You’re the fucking British government!” Greg pointed out. “Aren’t I safest around you?’

Mycroft just offered a solemn shake of the head.

“You’re safest when you have nothing to do with me.”

Greg’s eyes fell to the floor. It was his divorce all over again, except worse. He’d known for months before they decided to separate that he and his wife weren’t going to make it. But with Mycroft it was like day and night: a complete 360.

“What about Sherlock?” He asked.

“I think it’s best he continue to stay with you, if that’s alright,” Mycroft admitted. “He’s doing very well. It would be selfish if our breakup ruined that for him.”

_Our breakup._ Greg’s muscles tensed, and if Mycroft wasn’t so hurt already he might have shoved him away.

“I can’t do this,” Greg said. His voice was trembling, his body was shaking. He felt desperate and pathetic. “I can’t be that close to you and not have you.”

He dared to look up and meet Mycroft’s eyes, just so he could see the pain he was in. He wanted Mycroft to realise how much this hurt him.

“I have no choice,” Mycroft whispered.

“You do you have a choice, you bastard!” Greg shot, and Mycroft flinched. He knew he should be easy on him; he knew Mycroft must be on edge, but at the moment all he cared about was saving his relationship. “You’re being a coward, Mycroft.”

The look that comment received was equivalent to the look that captor received before they escaped. That look was like a window into Mycroft’s soul; a reminder that deep down, he always felt _something_.

“I’ve made my decision,” Mycroft whispered. “I’m sorry, Gregory, but this is how it must be.”

_It’s not! What about MY decisions? Why don’t I get a say in this?!_

But he couldn’t speak. The words were stuck inside his mouth. His body was frozen. He just stood there as Mycroft leaned forward and planted a single kiss on his cheek. His lips were rough and busted, but the touch made him tremble once again. Greg watched, helpless as Mycroft turned and headed for the door.

Before he went there was one last thing he had to ask him:

“What did that bastard say to you?” Greg demanded. Mycroft’s hand hovered over the doorknob as he froze in place. “After his call ended, the bastard said something that personally offended you.”

Mycroft turned slightly toward him but didn’t look up as he quietly confessed:

“The closest translation to English is ‘you filthy queer’.”

Mycroft drew in a deep breath, like hearing the phrase from his own lips made it that much worse.

The words struck Greg like a knife to the chest. Suddenly, he began seeing the bigger picture of what this was all about. Was it possible that this wasn’t about Mycroft’s government work at all but the fact that he was _gay_? No wonder he was so anxious to get rid of him…no wonder he seemed so frightened.

“Mycroft!” He called when Mycroft turned to leave once again.

“I’ll get someone to clean this up,” Mycroft stated softly, ignoring him.

He disappeared through the door like an apparition that was never actually there to begin with. Greg was left with an empty room and the smell of his own stench. He collapsed back into his seat, feeling mentally exhausted and still physically ill.

_How can all of this be about us? And how can he not want to fight for us?_

But he had very little strength left to torture himself with such questions. With a shaky sigh he let his head fall into his arms and choked back a sob as he felt his body heading toward a much-needed breakdown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me. please please please please please! Things WILL get better- after all we're only on prompt 22! So I PROMISE it will be okay!
> 
> I know this chapter ended up a bit dark, and I hope that's not a turn-off. I also debated how much Mycroft would be able to tell Greg, but in the end I decided he's so powerful that he could probably just tell him whatever he wanted. Thank you for reading. You guys make my day with your comments!


	23. Making Up Afterward

When his mobile rang in the middle of the night Greg shot straight up in bed, gasping for breath. He’d barely drifted off to sleep when he heard gunshots in his dreams, and his ringtone for Mycroft startled him just as much. He was breathless as he fumbled around his nightstand for the phone and answered:

“Hello?”

“Gregory,” there was a pause, and labored breathing. Judging by the background noise it sounded like Mycroft was still out and about- at two in the morning. If the voices on loudspeakers were any indication, he was in the hospital. “I…I wanted to talk to you.”

“Mye, are you okay?” He winced as the nickname slipped from him.

“I’m in hospital,” Mycroft explained. “Concussion…bruising…other things I can’t…I can’t even remember right now. I’m in need of a ride home, and I was hoping…I was hoping you could come get me.”

The bastard.

Did he have any idea how wrong it was of him to ask him for help?

“You don’t sound too good,” Greg murmured, instead of getting angry.

“I know it’s not right of me to ask for your help, but there are some things I need to say to you,” Mycroft went on, ignoring him.

“You broke up with me. I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

There was a long pause, and then:

“I made a mistake,” Mycroft whispered. Greg pumped his fists in the air, celebrating in silence. “Can you come get me?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, reaching for his keys, “I’ll be right there.”

 

As he walked into Mycroft’s hospital room he felt like he was still dreaming. Mycroft had a private room (of course) and he was just buttoning his shirt as Greg walked in. The stiff bandaging around his torso seemed to be making it difficult to finish the job, and when their eye met Greg held out a hand.

“Let me help you,” he offered.

Mycroft didn’t protest as he helped him get his right arm into the correct sleeve and began to button his shirt up. The bandages around his rips left the sea of black and blue on his upper chest exposed. His wrists were still raw and red, and his face…his face was stitched up but he looked like some kind of puppet, stapled back together after being torn apart.

“Jesus,” Greg whispered.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Mycroft promised.

“Yeah, well that must be the morphine talking.”

He offered Mycroft a small smile, but the other man didn’t so much as blink.

“Gregory…” Mycroft began, taking a step back. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Having you in my life has been one of the most brilliant things to have ever happened to me. I don’t want to lose you…I just want to protect you.”

“Are you un-breaking up with me?” Greg demanded.

Mycroft nodded, and Greg didn’t waste any time wrapping his arms around him. He felt hands close in around the back of his head and neck as he rested against Mycroft’s shoulder. His partner’s warm body flinched as he pressed forward, putting weight against his chest by accident. He shifted to offer him a bit more breathing room.

“You don’t deserve this,” Greg whispered. “None of this.”

“Neither do you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

The quiet hum of hospital equipment fell over them. Greg didn’t want to let go- the very thought of losing Mycroft frightened him, and he didn’t want any risk that he might slip away again. Underneath the thin fabric of Mycroft’s shirt he could feel cuts and swollen skin, and he breathed in a sharp breath that almost sounded like a sob.

“It’s okay,” Mycroft breathed into his ear. “I’m just sorry I treated you like that. You deserve better, Gregory. I was just…”

“Scared,” Greg finished for him, “admit it, you were scared. Just admit it, and I will forgive you.”

For a long moment he worried Mycroft wouldn’t be man enough to confess, but then a quiet reply echoed through the room.

“I wasn’t scared,” Mycroft replied. Greg bit his lip, trying to hold back his anger. “I was terrified.”

He closed his eyes and held onto Mycroft even harder at the confession. While it was a relief to hear him tell the truth, to see him express how he really felt, it was painfully hard to witness.

“They would have killed me if it weren’t for you,” Mycroft murmured. “I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

Greg offered him a gentle pat on the back before they broke apart. They both cleared their throats and looked away in unison, neither quite sure what to do.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Mycroft finally announced. “Just know that I wasn’t…I wasn’t in a very good place.”

“You were in that car crash, weren’t you?” Greg asked, bringing a hand to Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft glanced around the room, and Greg realised he must be worried that it wasn’t secure enough. Maybe he had already said too much…

_I’m bloody terrible at this._

Leaning forward, Mycroft whispered into his ear:

“Not here.”

 

An hour later Mycroft was officially discharged from the hospital. Greg insisted on staying with him through the night, and after arguing about it on the way to the Holmes manor Mycroft finally agreed. It felt too weird for them to both be in Mycroft’s bedroom so they found themselves in the main sitting room with a fire was crackling and mugs of tea in their hands. Mycroft’s body was draped across the sofa while Greg curled up in an armchair. For what felt like hours they sat in silence, but when he witnessed Mycroft bring a hand to his forehead and scrunch his face like he was in pain for the dozenth time he had to speak up.

“Headache?” Greg asked. No answer. “Mycroft you should be honest with me, this is your health we’re talking about.”

“I’m fine,” Mycroft sighed. “Just a bit nauseous. Really, Gregory, you don’t have to stay up with me.”

“I’m fine too,” Greg replied curtly. He wrapped his hands around his mug tightly. “You were telling me about the crash.”

In the light of the fire Mycroft’s eyes darkened, and the air seemed to turn cold in the room.

“I was coming back from a meeting with two colleagues. We noticed a car behind us following us rather closely, but just as our driver tried to speed up the vehicle rear-ended us at speeds so fast he lost control. We flipped twice before landing upside down. My colleagues were sitting by the windows…they died on impact. I blacked out and when I woke up I was in that room.”

Greg tightened his grip on the mug to keep from dropping it in shock. His stomach flipped, and a wave of nausea hit, but he was determined to hide how sickened he was. How he felt was _nothing_ compared to how Mycroft must be feeling.

“My nerves are completely shot,” Mycroft sighed, touching his forehead again. “I lashed out at you when I should have been thanking you.”

“It’s okay,” Greg whispered. “Mye…you know you don’t have to be so guarded around me.”

He stood up, and Mycroft watched as he shuffled over to him. Greg leaned over the sofa so that he could kiss Mycroft’s busted lips. Carefully, he lowered himself so that he could sit next to him and buried his head in Mycroft’s his boyfriend’s neck. He didn’t quite know what to say- what do you tell someone who was just kidnapped, beaten, and lost two colleagues?

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Greg finally murmured against his neck. “And I want you to be honest with me, alright? Completely, totally, honest. What you went through was horrible, and no matter where we go from here, I’m here for you. Whatever you need, whatever you need to talk about, I’m here.”

Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and placed a kiss to the top of his head.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered, his face pale and eyes hollow.

From his experience with Sherlock he knew the Holmes brothers weren’t ones to open up easily. He wasn’t surprised when Mycroft clammed up the rest of the night, letting his eyes focus in on the dying fire. But as they held each other, neither daring to move, Greg somehow felt like he was finally getting through to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See...told you! 
> 
> I'd love to know what you think about this plot twist! Thanks so much for reading!


	24. Gazing Into Each Other's Eyes

At some point around daybreak Greg fell asleep, and reality quickly morphed into a dark room. He couldn’t see, but he could hear the soft grunts of someone being hit repeatedly. In his sleep he tossed and turned, squirming and whimpering at the sound of each cry. After what felt like hours of being trapped in pure darkness a burst of light suddenly opened up before him. Gunshots exploded. He was finally moving…

Someone was shaking him.

“Gregory?” Called Mycroft’s worried voice.

His eyes batted open to find Mycroft standing in a dressing gown. His ginger hair was wet and skin damp, indicating he had just taken a bath. As Greg blinked and looked around, getting his bearings, he remembered he slept at Mycroft’s and that the sunlight must mean it was morning.

…then why did the clock on the mantel read two in the afternoon?

“Shit!” Greg exclaimed.

He struggled to untangle himself from the pile of blankets wrapped around him. Mycroft grabbed his arm as he scrambled to get up and forced him back down.

“I’m late for work!” Greg whined. “Incredibly late. Late enough to get fired late!”

“You won’t get fired,” Mycroft announced. “You’re on sick leave, as am I.”

“Sick leave?!”

“Yes.” Mycroft helped him sit down and followed, settling to a spot next to him. The vague memory of cuddling up against his warm body flashed in front of him, reminding him how groggy he was last night compared to this morning. The drugs must have been fully out of his system. “As far as your employer is concerned you were injured in a robbery yesterday.”

Greg’s eyes went wide and his breathing became erratic.

“Robbery?” He shouted. “I work for bloody Scotland Yard! Don’t you think they’ll know…oh Christ, you staged one, didn’t you? There was some sort of fake robbery or…”

His eyes shifted to the nearby picture window, which overlooked the main drive. He vaguely remembered being given a rental car while MI-5 tried to track down his stolen one.

“Shit,” he whispered, “you faked a car theft with my own car! That’s low, Mycroft, even for the government.”

“Would you rather tell them you were a hostage in a terrorist incident?” Mycroft challenged, and Greg fell silent. An arm fell around his shoulders, and he managed to calm down a bit. Perhaps he was right: his colleagues would never understand if he tried to tell him what really happened. “For the record that’s what I told Sherlock.”

“You told him I was robbed?” Greg moaned. “Great. And how are you going to explain the state you’re in?”

Mycroft shrugged.

“Perhaps I’ll just hide from,” he suggested. Greg knew he thought he was being clever, but it wasn’t working for him. “I can tell Sherlock it was a work-related incident. He’ll get the gist of what that means.”

The elder Holmes shifted on the sofa, and his tie on his dressing gown loosened just enough to reveal deep blue-black bruises across Mycroft’s ribs.

“Your wounds need redressing,” announced Greg. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

Mycroft hesitated at first, but when Greg got to his feet he sighed and followed him upstairs to the master bath. Flipping on the light, Greg stopped for a moment to take in the familiar site of Mycroft’s master suite. The four poster bed, the Van Gogh painting on the wall, the original hardwoods…god how he would have missed this if they had really broken up. Quietly, the two shuffled into the master bath. A damp towel hung on a peg, and the glass shower walls were still steamed up from a recent shower. His boyfriend didn’t say anything as he opened a medicine cabinet, pulled out a few meds, and pulled some fresh gauze out of a drawer. Greg was surprised to catch a glimpse of a number of medical supplies in the drawer, including arm and neck braces, but then again he supposed that shouldn’t be too surprising considering what Mycroft did for a living.

As he turned around Greg caught him by the hips.

“I found it hard to do by myself,” Mycroft admitted.

He winced as Greg dared to touch one of the bruises. The wound still felt tender and swollen, and he could tell by the meds Mycroft was taking that he was still in pain. Mycroft turned around and placed his hands on the sink to steady himself, and Greg cautiously stepped behind him as he took hold of the gauze. His boyfriend closed his eyes as Greg carefully cleaned his wounds and began wrapping them again.

“It’s okay,” Greg whispered.

“Gregory…”

Their eyes met in the mirror, and suddenly their breathing turned heavy in unison. Mycroft breathed in deeply as the gauze was attached to his body. Even from this distance he could hear the struggle in Mycroft’s lungs to breathe properly.

“There,” Greg said a few minutes later, “all better.”

He planted a kiss to the neck exposed by the dressing grown. Mycroft let out a sigh so soft, so delicate, that only Greg would have been able to mistake it for a groan. He was well aware of his own cock perking up in interest. Greg noticed that the tension in Mycroft’s shoulders seemed to relax when he kissed him, so he did it again. And again. And again.

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed again.

“I just want you to relax.”

Mycroft shuddered as Greg’s lips graced his upper back again.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” Greg whispered, glancing into the mirror. Their eyes met. “Please don’t hide from me.”

He planted another kiss to those broad, pale shoulders, and Mycroft tightened his grip against the sink.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Mycroft finally confessed. “I was up all night…remembering.”

Greg’s lips brushed across a sensitive spot on Mycroft’s neck, and his lover shuddered.

“Gregory I…I’m so sorry,” Mycroft whispered.

“Don’t be sorry.”

With a few nibbles to the neck an erotic groan echoed through the bathroom, and Greg felt his cock grow even harder. He knew he was moving into dangerous territory, but at the same time he was desperate to be as close to Mycroft as possible. When Mycroft shifted, as though trying to escape the hardening erection resting against his arse, Greg got the memo.

Too soon.

He stared at Mycroft’s stitches in the mirror and announced:

“Have you ever thought about a career change?” This earned him a laugh, and a small smile peered from the corner of Mycroft’s lips. “I’m serious! You could own a book shoppe…become a professor…anything!”

“I have thought about it, on very bad days...or during very boring meetings,” Mycroft admitted. “When I first started uni I studied finance. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if I were a banker instead, or a financial analyst.”

“Mmm…sounds boring,” Greg teased as he gently wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist. “You know…you could be a chef.”

“A _chef_?”

“Own a restaurant, maybe?” Greg suggested. Face turning red with embarrassment, Mycroft’s eyes darted away. But his body tensed beneath Greg’s touch, like the thought excited him. “You’re an excellent cook.”

“I’m afraid there’s no quitting my job,” Mycroft sighed. “Though the Prime Minister probably wouldn’t say no to making me his personal pastry chef.”

A bark of laugh escaped both of them, and at the thought of food Greg’s stomach growled for the first time in two days.

“Sounds like you could use some breakfast,” Mycroft said. He raised one of Greg’s hands to his lips to kiss it gracefully.

“Maybe just some toast,” Greg admitted.

Their eyes met for the final time in the mirror, and Greg was officially convinced that things were good between them.

“I will always protect you,” Mycroft whispered, as though he were thinking the exact same thing.

Greg nodded and echoed:

“And I you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this one...mainly for the thought of Mycroft retiring and becoming a pastry chef. What did you think? Thanks for reading!


	25. Getting Married

It took a few days after the incident for Mycroft’s bruises to begin to fade, but once he could manage to move around without the help of painkillers his boyfriend was desperate to get out. Greg took him to dinner, Italian this time, at a restaurant so romantic he felt warm through the entire meal- and not just because of the candlelight. The restaurant was dark and lit solely with dim lamps and candles, and they were perfectly hid in the back, seated at a table for two.

“How is your alfredo?” Greg asked.

He sucked more of his own linguini as he watched his partner eat. Mycroft seemed to have difficulty adjusting to being out and about; he jumped at each cling of silverware against the table, and he had hardly touched the alfredo and broccoli he usually loved. It was a simple meal, but a necessary one considering how little Mycroft had eaten over the past couple of days.

“Bland,” Mycroft admitted, “but not because the restaurant is disappointing, I just can’t taste anything.”

“Must have something to do with getting your gut pounded in.”

Mycroft didn’t reply. Instead he sipped at his water and grimaced, like even just that was too much for him. A hand suddenly fell over Greg’s hand, and he glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Leaning closer, Mycroft murmured:

“I’m glad just to be out. Thank you, Gregory.”

A smile slipped across his face as Greg replied:

“Always.”

He squeezed Mycroft’s hand before they broke apart, returning to their meals. Across from them a couple laughed. There was something about them, though, that was different than the other couples in the restaurant. The way they touched each other, how close their faces were. For this couple, this dinner was clearly not just a dinner.

“Hey,” Greg said quietly, motioning for Mycroft to lean forward. “Do you see that couple? He’s about to propose.”

His boyfriend’s eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look-

“Don’t stare!” Greg hissed.

Even as he did the man across from them suddenly stood up. His hand slipped from his girlfriend’s to his pocket, and her eyes immediately erupted with tears when he pulled out a jewelry box. Though everyone in the restaurant was staring the man spoke so that only his girlfriend could hear, and after only a few sentences their arms were around each other’s necks. She openly wept as the patrons burst into applause, Greg included. Mycroft didn’t seem to be impressed.

“What, not amused by proposals?” Greg asked.

“If by that you mean am I not amused by someone asking the love of their life the most important and intimate question they’ll ever ask in front of dozens of strangers then no, I’m not.”

“It’s all for fun though,” Greg shrugged.

He was too embarrassed to admit he proposed to his wife at her birthday party in front of all her friends. Then again, if Mycroft had a point maybe that was the first sign he wasn’t meant to be with her.

“If you ever propose to me in a restaurant I’ll be inclined to throw the closest dessert into your face,” Mycroft teased.

A wave of excitement rushed through him just at the thought. Part of him wanted to kick Mycroft for daring to even joke about marriage so early in their relationship, but the other part was elated by the very fact that his secretive, reserved, boyfriend would even acknowledge the possibility. But the subject was so delicate that he didn’t dare go any deeper into it. Besides, that would never happen, would it? Not with Mycroft running around becoming the centre of terrorist attacks. It would be far too dangerous, even if they did become that close, and Mycroft's face darkened as he seemed to realise how cruel the joke actually was.

The waitress came back to ask if they needed anything, and Mycroft replied:

“Send a bottle of your best wine to the happy couple. Don’t tell them who it’s from.”

Greg grinned, impressed.

“See, even you are a romantic at heart.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and lifted his water to his lips. His eyes twinkled over the rim of the glass, and Greg had to look away to hide his flushed cheeks.

“Let’s go,” Mycroft said, pushing his plate away. He motioned again for the waitress for the check. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

He winked, and Greg nearly jumped up as he realised Mycroft’s meaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut is ahead...because Mycroft is way more of a romantic than he likes to admit. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! What did you think?


	26. On One of their Birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday dear Gregory...

Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

It was one of those days that started bad from the beginning, with a traffic jam that made him nearly an hour late to work. He forgot his lunch, didn’t have time to grab anything, spilled his coffee, had a shouting match with his boss, and spent the rest of the day observing a crime scene on the banks of the Thames…on one of the coldest days of the year.

_Worst. Birthday. Ever._

The smell of pizza brought him out of his reverie. He looked up and was surprised to see Sally standing at the door holding a box of what smelled like mushroom and pepperoni- his favourite.

“The freak says happy birthday,” Sally explained as she slid the pizza box on his desk. “I took the liberty of taking the first slice.”

“Good,” Greg replied, peering into the box. “If he poisoned we would probably know by now.”

Her face noticeably paled, and she muttered a quick “happy birthday” before fleeing from the room. There was indeed a note on the box with the same greeting scribbled on it in Sherlock’s handwriting, and a smile slipped across his face. He took out his mobile and immediately sent his consultant a thank you.

Then he stopped and sent a second text:

_There’s nothing wrong is there? The flat didn’t burn down, did it?_

A moment later a reply popped up:

_No, but if it did we could use the insurance money to get a better place. Just saying. Enjoy the pizza and paperwork. –SH_

It was always nice to know that Sherlock had a heart, though if he were anything compared to his brother there had to be an entire soul full of emotion inside him just waiting to be uplifted.

There was another knock at the door, and part of him shamefully hoped it was someone with surprise beer or a cake. Instead the surprise was even better.

“Mycroft!” He nearly exclaimed. “Come in, eat. Lock the door. People will talk.”

“People will talk if I lock the door,” his boyfriend pointed out. “Though now that Ms. Donavan has left I can assure you we are quite alone. I scoped out the place before I came in.”

“Did you now?” Greg said, eyes twinkling.

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella, which was actually soaked from rain for once.

_Brilliant, a late night rainstorm. Just the thing to make this birthday even more shit._

“Pizza?” Greg asked, waving toward the box.

He was slowly managing to talk Mycroft into trying human food. They had mastered Chinese takeout and Indian cuisine, but something about pizza still made the elder Holmes brother squeamish.

“That came from Sherlock,” Mycroft said. Greg assumed he recognised the handwriting from the note. “I’ll pass. You know, when he was a teenager all he wanted was pizza and Chinese food. Our mother used to cook all the time, and I think after her death he literally couldn’t stomach anyone else’s home cooking.”

“That’s…incredibly sweet, actually,” Greg admitted.

“He grew out of it, thankfully,” Mycroft said, reaching for a slice. A look of upmost fear and disgust was planted on his face as he held the pizza in his hands, contemplating. His amusement with the pizza clashed with the wounds Greg could still see embedded in his skin. His bruises were nearly gone, only yellow smudges now, but he had a thick pink scar that was sure to attract attention. “I did only have an early lunch today. Will this kill me if I eat it?”

“Sally tried it first, and she seems fine,” Greg said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I was actually referring to this stuff they call meat.”

Nevertheless Mycroft held his nose and dared to take a bite. He spit it out almost immediately.

“It’s not that bad!” Greg said, but he was barking with laughter.

“This is pure grease!” His lover complained. “Please let me buy you a real birthday dinner.”

“But someone already bought me one!” He whined. “How will Sherlock feel if I come home with the entire box of pizza he bought just for me?”

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft replied:

“I imagine he would eat it.”

With another laugh, Greg took the slice out of Mycroft’s hand and began to eat it himself.

“Besides, I really do need to do this paperwork,” Greg said, motioning to the stacks that still remained on his desk.

“Actually you don’t,” Mycroft said. His eyes drifted away, avoiding him. “Besides whisking you away to give you a real birthday I came here to warn you that I’m hijacking your case.”

Greg gaped at him.

“You can’t do that!”

“The body you found this morning was an MI-5 agent!” Mycroft hissed. “If there was any sense of organisation left in the world I would have pulled you from the case hours ago. My people have to handle this one, Gregory. You’re off the hook…you’re welcome.”

Somehow, he didn’t feel relieved. He stared at the hours of paperwork he had just done and thought back to his awful morning by the freezing river.

“But it’s my case!” He complained.

Mycroft stood up and swirled his umbrella with his hand, accidently sending sprinkles of rain across Greg’s desk and suit.

“Sorry,” Mycroft mumbled, “out of habit. But honestly, Greg, you deserve to celebrate your birthday.”

“I’m not really in the mood now,” he sighed, burying his head in his arms.

A hand pried his head back up, and once again Mycroft’s eyes were twinkling as he murmured:

“I have a surprise for you.”

Five minutes later he was standing out in the car park, in the pouring rain, hiding under Mycroft’s umbrella. A grin was plastered across his boyfriend’s face while he himself wore a look of complete shock.

“My car!” He cried happily. “You rescued it!”

He stepped into the rain, sacrificing his suit for the chance to run his hands over what looked like a new paint job.

“Actually it’s new,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg rounded on him, sickened.

“You bought me a new car?!” He shot. “You…you can’t do that, Mye! I don’t care if we’ve been together four weeks or four decades, no buys me a car! I’m an adult, I can buy myself a car.”

Mycroft’s cheeks reddened a bit, and he felt bad when he realised he hadn’t heard the whole story.

“Your car is still being kept for evidence purposes,” Mycroft explained, “and I imagine it will never be released. This is something my superiors actually offered to do. It’s not a gift from me. Consider it a gift from your government.”

A pit formed in his stomach.

“That…doesn’t make me feel much better.”

Mycroft’s cold hand fell on his shoulder, and Greg looked up at him, pleading for more explanations.

“It’s not bugged or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Mycroft offered.

“It’s still from the government,” Greg stammered, “and I don’t even know what the fuck that’s even supposed to mean! Besides, how am I supposed to know it’s not bugged or anything?”

His lover sighed and took a pair of keys out of his pocket.

“Come with me, and I’ll prove it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut next chapter ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I can't believe we're almost at the 30th chapter mark...even if it took way longer than 30 days to get here! Thank you for your support!


	27. Doing Something Ridiculous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade car sex. Need I say more?

“Mmm,” Greg moaned as his lips parted from Mycroft’s.

The warmth of the car heater was finally settling in, and having Mycroft’s body leaning against his helped. His cheeks flushed as they broke apart, and he wore a sloppy grin as he looked around and commented:

“My old car didn’t have tinted windows,” Greg teased. “Was that a personal touch?”

“Yes,” growled Mycroft.

A steady rainfall pattered against the rooftop and streamed over the windows, making the night feel all the more romantic. After Mycroft had reached over not once, but twice to feel him up while he was driving Greg threatened to stop the car. When Mycroft kept teasing him he kept his word and pulled into a woodsy area off the secluded road that led to the Holmes estate. After countless moments of intense snogging that left them both with red, swollen, lips, Greg’s heart pounded as he realised he wanted to take this to the next level. It made him feel even more exposed than usual to think of doing this in a car off the road, but he knew this area was abandoned save for the minor government official who occupied the ominous mansion beyond the nearby steel gates.

He locked eyes with his boyfriend’s, and Mycroft’s pupils blew wide as Greg reached down and unlatched his belt buckle.

“Are you really okay with this?” He breathed. Mycroft nodded and kissed him again.

His partner nuzzled against his chin and unzipped his trousers.

“Fuck,” Greg whispered, thrusting up gently into the intruding hand.

He ran his hands over Mycroft’s broad shoulders, down his arms, and across his chest to the buttons of his jacket. Their kiss deepened, and Greg wasted no time tearing off the rest of Mycroft’s coat, but his boyfriend grabbed his forearm- a bit too tightly.

“It _is_ the coldest day of the year,” Mycroft pointed out.

“You’re not going to have sex with me while wearing a bloody coat!” Greg shot. Mycroft only grinned as he nibbled at his neck.

His trousers were opened just enough for Mycroft to stick his hand down his pants and feel him, running a hand down the length of his shaft.

“This is mad,” Greg whispered.

A low growl was his only reply as Mycroft leaned down and took him in his mouth. Greg’s gasp of surprise echoed against the pattering rain, and as Mycroft’s lips brushed to and fro against his cock he closed his eyes and decided to just relax. The brush of hand against his thigh made his breath hitch; his skin felt sensitive even in the cold, and his entire body tensed when that hand jumped to his balls.

“ _Mycroft_ ,” Greg whined.

His hands fell on his lover’s shoulders before rising to his head to encourage him to go down on him harder, further. With a moan he threw his head back against the seat and let the stress of the day melt away from him. _Mycroft._ All he needed, wanted, for his birthday was Mycroft.

A grunt escaped him as his cock hit the back of Mycroft’s throat. He was probably being a bit more vocal than he should, but each little noise he made only seemed to spike arousal in his boyfriend. Mycroft reached down, palming at the obvious bulge in his own trousers, and whenever his hands were on Greg instead he seemed so excited he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He couldn’t be sure how long they stayed like that, with Mycroft’s mouth on his cock, his lips lapping at the head, tickling the shaft, and his own uneven breathing ripping through the car. He felt so relaxed he could have fallen asleep there, if it weren’t for the bitter cold and the twinge of excitement in his stomach. Greg shifted against the seat, thrusting a bit into Mycroft’s mouth, and his boyfriend let out a moan of approval. The sound was perfectly erotic, and a sharp flush appeared on Greg’s skin. He was breathing in pants now, and despite the awkwardness of it he kept thrusting, thrusting, _thrusting_ just to hear Mycroft’s wanton little gasps of shock.

Eventually Mycroft let his cock slip out of his mouth to allow himself a moment to catch his breath, but Greg was too impatient to wait for him. He felt too sensitive, like he might break with only one more touch, and…

“Come in my mouth,” Mycroft whispered.

He read his mind exactly.

Greg slowly let his cock drag against Mycroft’s lips before shoving it back into his mouth. Between his teasing thrusts and the fingers toying with his balls it didn’t take long before his orgasm rushed through him and he spurted out thick streaks of cum down Mycroft’s throat. Panting, he pulled out, wanting to make sure Mycroft didn’t gag, but apparently he wasn’t finished and a final streak of cum burst over his lover’s lips.

He nearly died, right then and there.

Mycroft pulled off of him slow and easy. They both looked wrecked, even though he was the only one who had gotten off so far.

Just as his lover began reaching for his own zip, Greg shot out a hand to stop him.

“Let’s get you home,” Greg whispered. “I want to thank you for that properly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!


	28. Doing Something Sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have taken this prompt a bit seriously...

Greg couldn’t remember if anyone had ever covered his eyes and teased him with a birthday surprise, but as Mycroft led him into his dimly lit house he decided it was never too late to experience something from the first time. The sweet smell of chocolate flooded him as he heard Mycroft flip on the lights. When Mycroft’s hand slipped away from his face a bright grin spread across his own.

“Happy birthday,” Mycroft murmured into his ear.

Two strong hands squeezed his shoulders. There was a single unlit candle in the center of a small chocolate cake, complete with swirls of dark chocolate icing going down the middle and strawberries on top.

“Mye,” he whispered. He was so shocked he almost felt lightheaded. “Did you bake this?”

He took a step toward the cake so he could lean over it, resisting the urge to swipe a finger through the top of the icing.

“Like I said, I dabble,” Mycroft teased. “Ah, there’s also…”

Mycroft swept across the kitchen to his wine cellar and pulled out a bottle of wine labeled in language he didn’t understand and a 2004 date.

“Eiswen?” Greg asked, snatching the bottle away from him like a child.

“Yes, it was a gift given to me by an Austrian diplomat.”

Greg raised his eyebrows.

“I didn’t know diplomats came bearing gifts.”

“They do when they want favours,” Mycroft said, winking.

As he handed a glass of the Eiswein to Greg he stole a kiss to his cheek, but he couldn’t help but to roll his eyes.

“That makes me feel good about foreign politics,” Greg teased, “is it really all based on who has the best wine?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

His lips aimed for Greg’s mouth this time, and once again he felt a sharp heat rush through him. Mycroft tried to deepen the kiss, and as their bodies brushed together he could feel how desperate his lover was. He knew he wasn’t being fair, but his head and heart were pounding, warning him it was too soon.

“Mye,” he whispered, breaking apart.

Mycroft seemed to understand and nodded, motioning to the cake.

“Shall I cut you a slice?” He asked.

“Yes, please!” He grinned.

He held out a plate as Mycroft cut them both perfect-sized portions and poured them each a glass of wine.

“Cheers,” Greg said as their glasses touched.

“Happy birthday,” Mycroft echoed.

They both took a swallow of wine, and Greg’s eyes practically popped at the taste. It was sweet, like a fruity mix, but it was somehow unlike any other wine he had tried.

“I’ve never been that much of a wine connoisseur until I met you,” Greg admitted, “but this, this is brilliant.”

“Try this,” Mycroft said, scooping up a fork-full of cake.

He pried it into Greg’s lips, and he moaned at the perfect blend of chocolate and strawberries. The chocolate seemed to have multiple layers, like a blend of milk and dark flavours, and just one bite was enough to do him in.

“That is gorgeous!” Greg exclaimed through the bite of food.

He accepted a second bite Mycroft fed him, and when he realised his boyfriend didn’t seem too interested in indulging in his own dessert he grabbed the second fork and pried his way into his partner’s lips. When Mycroft closed his eyes and stifled a moan Greg smiled at the thought of him savouring his own masterpiece.

“You’re a brilliant cook,” Greg whispered, “thank you, for everything.”

Reaching up, he caressed Mycroft’s face, running a finger over the angry pink scar, and kissed him. He knew he must be desperate to get off, and as they leaned together he could practically feel Mycroft vibrating against him. Greg reached down, palming his lover’s cock, and he buried his face in Mycroft’s neck at the hitch the breath of the body lying against him.

“Gregory,” Mycroft pleaded softly.

“Mmm,” Greg sang, “cake first.”

As he abruptly pushed away from his lover and dove for the cake instead, Mycroft’s face fell agape, making him look so stupefied that Greg burst out laughing.

“You can’t tempt me with cake and then expect me to help you get off,” he said with a grin. Mycroft’s face melted into what could only be described as a pout, and Greg relished in his chance to tease him.

Then an idea popped in his head, and he felt his face grow hot just at the thought.

“Come here,” Greg murmured, momentarily sitting the cake inside as he pulled Mycroft closer. He offered Mycroft a slow, chocolaty kiss before undoing the buttons on his shirt, one by one. “We can multitask.”

“Don’t you dare-“

But Greg acted to fast as he swiped a finger across the top of the cake and wiped the chocolate off on Mycroft’s nose. The way Mycroft was glaring at him, mixed with the chocolate nose, reminded him of a sad clown.

“We are _not_ doing this!” Mycroft protested.

“Doing what?” Greg teased.

He picked a strawberry from the cake and balanced it on top of the stripe of chocolate. It instantly fell back into his hands, but as he started laughing Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, unamused.

“It’s my birthday,” he pointed out. “Let me have my fun.”

“And how old did you turn again?” Mycroft challenged.

His eyes diverted away as he turned his attention back to the cake and murmured under his breath:

“That’s not important.”

Greg picked up another strawberry and let it hover just over Mycroft’s mouth.

“I’m not a dog, Gregory,” Mycroft sighed. “I didn’t spend hours working on that cake so you can play with it.”

“I’ve had a nightmare of a day,” Greg pointed out. “Please!”

Mycroft opened his mouth in defeat and ate the fruit from his fingertips. Just to spite him Mycroft reached for a strawberry to pop in Greg’s mouth.

“Ok, maybe this is a bit pathetic,” he admitted.

He gasped as he was suddenly grabbed by the shoulders and lowered to the table. Their eyes met and for a moment the house was complete silent, save for their heavy breathing. Greg watched as Mycroft’s lips lowered down to meet his and his hands crawled around to his lover’s back as they kissed. One of Mycroft’s hands wrapped around his neck and one reached for the cake, picking up another strawberry to feed to him. He accepted it, followed by a finger full of chocolate, and he closed his eyes as he savoured the perfect blend of fruity and chocolate sweetness. Mycroft gazed down at him, breathing slowly, and dragged Greg’s hand around to land against his cock. Letting out a low, shaky, breath, he palmed his lover’s cock through his trousers a few times before undoing the zip.

“It really is brilliant chocolate,” Greg breathed.

Pulling Mycroft against him, he turned his head enough to expose his neck, allowing him to plant a trail of kisses up his neck, his jaw, to his ear. Mycroft moaned, and even Greg was beginning to become aroused again. When his boyfriend offered a few teasing thrusts into his hands Greg whispered:

“Expecting me to top from the bottom?”

Eyes lit with fire, Mycroft didn’t protest as Greg pushed him off to turn the tables on him. He stood up and spun Mycroft around so that he leaned over the island.

“Trousers off,” Greg ordered.

“It’s your birthday,” Mycroft grumbled as he pushed his trousers down to his knees. “I thought I-"

“You thought wrong.” Greg scooped up a finger-full of icing and let it slide down the small of Mycroft’s back. A shiver erupted underneath his touch, and he leaned in to murmur into Mycroft’s ear: “It’s my birthday so I make the rules.”

He knelt down so his lips could reach the chocolate. Mycroft remained absolutely still, drawing in sharp breaths, as he licked up his treat. He reached for more chocolate and ran it just above his the crack of his arse. When he reached that slit he dragged his town down, down, until he had access to his hole.

“If you want to eat you can,” Greg offered, “in fact, I insist.”

Greg dipped another finger in chocolate and reached wrong, prying it into Mycroft’s mouth. His lover squirmed but obeyed.

“Oh god,” Mycroft suddenly gasped as Greg’s tongue punctured his hole.

He draped more chocolate down Mycroft’s hips, stained his arse with chocolate fingerprints, and squeezed each nipple, leaving behind a scent of dark chocolate.

“You smell very good,” Greg teased as he ran a finger down his arse again. “Ready?”

Mycroft nodded as his finger lingered at his hole, and Greg held on to his shoulders as he gently pushed the first finger in.

“Do you need…again?” Mycroft panted, too breathless for complete sentences.

“Maybe,” Greg said, grinning against his back as he fingered him. “Do you want some wine with that?”

He tipped Mycroft’s wine glass to his lips, but he only managed a few swallows before he gagged. Greg was tempted to pour the rest of his glass down his bare back, but he decided he’d rather not get a lecture about wasting a rare, expensive, glass of wine. He sat the wine down just out of reach of Mycroft and instead reached for another strawberry, placing it at the small of Mycroft’s back. He planted his lips in a perfect open-mouthed kiss around the piece of fruit, giving him room to suck at Mycroft’s skin as he swallowed the berry.

“Good?” Greg asked. When Mycroft nodded he slipped in another finger to open him up more. He slapped his arse with his other hand, making his lover jump. “Fuck yeah.”

This time he grabbed a handful of chocolate, leaving the cake in a messy lump.

“Please Gregory,” Mycroft gasped, desperate.

He wrapped his chocolate-covered hand around Mycroft’s cock and began pumping slowly at first, then relentlessly as he fingered him at the same time.

“Fuck,” Mycroft whispered, “fuck.”

Greg just rested his forehead against Mycroft’s back as he pumped and thrust against him, working his cock skillfully in his hand.

_“Gregory,”_ Mycroft whimpered.

Mycroft closed his eyes tightly, and Greg knew this was it. The wait had been too much, and his boyfriend’s cock spasm on cue in his hand, spurting this streams of cum over the chocolate. His lover thrust his hips, throwing himself forward into his fist and backward into the finger penetrating his arse.

At last his hips stalled, and Mycroft collapsed with a grunt against the island.

“That was lovely,” Greg said, licking a final stripe down his back. “And delicious.”

“Unnecessary,” Mycroft sneered as he looked down at his wrecked, dirty, body. “I need a wash.”

Greg simply hummed as he sucked at a bit of chocolate on Mycroft’s chest.

“What about you?” Mycroft asked after a few silent moments of Greg sucking on his check. He let a hand fall to the cock hidden by his trousers to emphasis his point.

But he was still riding the high of his car blowjob, and seeing Mycroft so wrecked and covered in chocolate was enough to last him…well, at least another hour.

“I’m good, thanks,” Greg said, kissing his cheek. “But I think I will join you in that shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have noticed, we're getting pretty close to the end. I also skipped a prompt, but I'll make up for it. I've utterly failed at the 30 day aspect of it, but oh well, it's been a fun ride anyway! Thank you to everyone who is reading and for the lovely comments!


	29. Doing Something Hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I originally wrote something different, but I liked this idea for this prompt a lot better. Enjoy!

“This winter is never going to end,” Greg whined as he snuggled against Mycroft’s body.

They lay on the sofa by the fire crackling away in the fireplace, and he sighed happily at the mix of comfort from both the fire’s warmth and Mycroft’s body heat. In the past month he had seen some of the most brutal snowstorms he could ever remember. Perhaps other winters hadn’t been as memorable, but he had a feeling people would be talking about this one for some time. And he was sick of it.

“If I never see another snowflake again I will be perfectly happy,” Mycroft said.

He planted a kiss on top Greg’s head and brushed his hands over his chest.

“I was under the impression you didn’t mind the cold,” Greg teased.

Mycroft scrunched his nose up.

“That’s Sherlock,” he protested. “All I know is that the next time someone in the Caribbean needs the government’s help I’ll be the first person on the plane.”

“I didn’t know you were one for the beach!”

“No, I just despite living in artic conditions.”

Their eyes turned to the snow falling steadily outside. It was nearly March, but it didn’t seem like there was any sign of winter ending in sight. Mycroft’s arms slipped from his sides, and Greg’s shivered as he felt his hands crawl up his back. The touch of his fingertips against his back was actually tickled, and a small giggle escaped him.

“You’re ticklish!” Mycroft grinned.

“No!” Greg pouted, even as those fingers scratched against him again, making him giggle once more.

At last Mycroft’s strong hands fell on his shoulders, and he squeezed once, then twice, before Greg moaned that the touch. There was so much tension in his shoulders he felt like he carried two bricks on his back. Mycroft began massaging his shoulders slowly while his lips dipped down to grace the sensitive skin behind his ear.

“Take off your shirt,” Mycroft ordered.

Greg obeyed without argument. As soon as he shed his shirt from his body he felt an elbow dig into his upper back _right there_ at the perfect angle.

“That feels bloody amazing,” Greg murmured.

Mycroft’s elbow moved over just a little before digging into his back again. He breathed in deep and slow and then exhaled carefully with each movement. When the elbow work was done his boyfriend’s fingers jumped to his sides, pinching the skin (and fat) all the way to his hips.

“I have an idea, if you don’t mind lying down and undressing.”

A rush of heat ran down his body, and Greg felt his face flushing as he commented:

“Has any man ever said no to their lover asking them to lie down and undress?” He challenged. “Floor or sofa?”

“I’m sure the sofa will be much more comfortable for the both of us.”

Greg worked on taking off his trousers as those fingers massaged his lower back. When he peeled off his shoes and socks and was left in just a pair of simple white pants Mycroft’s hand unceremoniously fell over his cock. He rubbed him there, his hand moving in a slow, circular, motion before he helped Greg pull the boxers all the way off him. With a shudder he stretched his naked body over the sofa, and he shook again when he felt Mycroft straddle his arse. For a few silent moments he simply massaged his lower back and hips, but then in one abrupt movement Mycroft’s weight shifted down to the edge of the sofa. The move allowed him enough room to begin squeezing at Greg’s arse, and he couldn’t help but to wish they had some massage oil on hand. But just having those fingers were enough.

“You have no idea how amazing that feels,” Greg mumbled as he rested his head in his arms.

Mycroft simply hummed happily as he groped at his arse, digging hard and shoving his cheeks as close together as possible. He seemed to be trying to build up as much tension as possible before releasing it all together, and the resulting feeling was heavenly. At one point one hand lingered on his arse, squeezing hard, while the other crawled back to his lower back. He let his elbow tear into Greg’s lower back again, and he didn’t know which felt better- the hand on his back or on his arse.

“You’re carrying so much tension in your muscles,” Mycroft commented.

“Maybe it has something to do with a certain government agent hijacking my case earlier this week.”

He could feel Mycroft stiffen on top of him, but he didn’t regret saying it. He really didn’t approve of anyone- even Mycroft- interfering in his cases.

“It was an MI-5 agent, I told you that,” Mycroft pointed out. He sighed. “And trust me, you wouldn’t have wanted to work on that case.”

By the hollow tone of his voice Greg knew Mycroft was serious, and he decided to never bring it up again.

“Really though, Gregory,” Mycroft went on as both hands when back to his arse, “have you been feeling okay?”

He hesitated, knowing what Mycroft was getting at. Neither had mentioned the ordeal they went through, and for Greg that was mainly because he still couldn’t close his eyes at night without seeing Mycroft tied up in that chair. Sudden noises still made him jump, and the colour red made him sick to his stomach.

“It’s just been a hard week,” he whispered instead.

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping too,” Mycroft sighed, as though reading his mind.

Greg’s head perked up; he was shocked that Mycroft was the first to really admit how he felt. Even as the sides of his hands began shifting toward the crack of his arse there was still a trace of faded red scars where he had been bound.

“Every agent dreads sleep,” Mycroft admitted. “For a few hours after you go home you convince yourself that you’re still human, that you’re still _you_ , and then you close your eyes at night…and the monsters come out. I suppose my nightmares are my deepest, darkest, secrets. Well, that and the fact that I’m sleeping with a DI.”

Without turning around fully he could still see a small, sad, smile peer from Mycroft’s lips.

“I know what you mean,” Greg whispered. “The things I’ve seen…it follows you, all the time. And seeing you, hurt, seeing you being beaten…that will never leave me.”

“Please,” Mycroft pleaded, his voice sounding uncharacteristically small.

But Greg cut him off before he could say anything else.

“Don’t. Everything is still fresh, it’s still raw. I don’t think either of us is ready to talk about it. But the fact is you were tortured and I killed someone.”

Suddenly he felt Mycroft’s body close in on his. A pair of lips hovered just over his cleft, and he shivered as his lover kissed the skin there.

“Please don’t carry that guilt,” Mycroft whispered. “You saved my life, Gregory. That is what happened that day. You saved my life.”

He was surprised how much hearing those words soothed him. So Mycroft didn’t hate him, for opening fire and bringing murder onto the table. Mycroft didn’t think any less of him for being able to take another’s life- but then again, he had at one point been a spy, once? Why was it so hard for him to come to terms with the fact that Mycroft was used to this?

“Relax,” Mycroft coaxed, kissing his way down his cleft. “Relax and just…be here, with me.”

A tongue suddenly dashed out to tease him between his cheeks, and Greg moaned at the rapid, sensual, brushes. His hands stretched out, massaging his hips, and it felt like every inch of his body was on edge- in the best of ways. The fire crackled nearby, and every hair on his body stood up straight. His cock hardened, trapped between his body and the sofa. Mycroft licked and squeezed, and he wasn’t sure his arse had ever felt so…relaxed.

Then the tongue patted against his hole, and he let out a throaty groan that echoed through the room. When the tongue punctured his hole he nearly shot off the sofa, and he couldn’t let out the series of raspy moans that escaped him as Mycroft lapped back and forth, back and forth. Meanwhile those hands- those _hands_ \- skipped from massaging his cheeks to slapping, ever so gently.

“Oh god,” Greg gasped at the sudden _smack_ to his left cheek. “Again.”

Mycroft lifted his head.

“Really?” He asked, interested.

“Yes. _Please._ Again!”

He had never done much experimenting much with spanking, but secretly the thought aroused him. His boyfriend didn’t hesitate to obey, smacking harder and harder with each hit. The tongue wandered deeper, faster, and soon Mycroft was developing a rhythm that turned his body into a trembling, whimpering mess.

_Faster. Harder. Deeper._

_Faster. Harder Deeper._

_Two smacks in a row._

“Harder, Mycroft,” he whispered.

He began pushing himself into the sofa, trying to give his cock some relief, but Mycroft threw more of his weight against him to stop him.

_Deeper._

_Back and forth._

“Harder.”

Red handprints were surely appearing on his arse now, but he would wear them with pride. Mycroft’s palms smacked against his cheeks with more force now as he rimmed him, and Greg was sure he was regretting his choice to remain dressed.

Suddenly Mycroft’s lips jumped to his arse cheeks, biting and pulling at his reddening skin. He squeezed him hard, and his body trembled, begging for release.

“Turn around, love,” Mycroft ordered.

He didn’t want to move.

If he moved, there was a very real possibility that he would cum completely untouched, and Mycroft would never let him live that one down.

But he obeyed, his body tensing as he did. Mycroft’s hands roamed from his pelvis, down his thighs, to his feet, and he closed his eyes as both feet were treated to the same massage. Leaning forward, Mycroft raised his legs so he could keep massaging all while planting kisses down his thighs.

“Fuck,” Greg gasped.

He had to close his eyes when Mycroft’s hand shifted back to his cock, finally rubbing his shaft and then his balls. A finger penetrated him and began following the same pattern his tongue did.

_Faster. Deeper. Up. Down._

He moved his arse, shifting from side to side so he could enjoy the friction. Mycroft didn’t protest when he grabbed his cock and tugged. Thrusting up, his hips pushed the finger further-

_Faster._

“Oh, _oh_ ,” he suddenly gasped.

“Are you going to cum?” Mycroft teased. “Go ahead. Do it.”

When Mycroft’s dominant side came out, he did not disappoint.

Greg came, thrusting erratically as he was fingered faster and deeper. Mycroft reached his prostate just as spurts of cum burst out of him, and his whole body erupted into waves of pure pleasure.

He was left breathing hard as he finally finished, but although his body was begging him to simply enjoy the relief he wasted no time in leaning up and pushing Mycroft back into the sofa. Before his boyfriend could protest Greg pulled down his zip and took his cock out. Mycroft was hard, and his eyes wide as Greg went down on him.

“You’re not going to bother telling me to lie down and get undressed?” Mycroft teased.

Greg reached up and planted a hand over one of his lover’s nipples, clutching hard. He wanted to do this quick, and messy. His mouth ran over the entire length of Mycroft’s shaft, letting the head smack against his throat before pulling out again. When he began fondling with his balls, Mycroft moaned and thrust up to meet him.

He rubbed the shaft in his hands, starting at the head and working his way back the balls. His took each in his lips, sucking lightly, before pulling off to take all of him back in his mouth.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whimpered.

The wounded plea was always a sign that Mycroft wasn’t far from climax. He sucked harder, letting his head bob up and down the shaft until he felt Mycroft’s cock pulse in his mouth. He came, shooting a few heavy loads down his throat before his body fell against the sofa in defeat. The cock softened as it slipped from Greg’s lips, and they were both breathing hard as their bodies shifted to lie against each other.

Their eyes trailed to meet, and they kissed, long and slow. In the glow of the fireplace, in Mycroft’s arms, he realised he was finally beginning to feel safe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more prompt to go! I missed "cooking" by accident. I hope you have enjoyed the ride, and I'd love to know what you think of the story. Thanks for all your support!


	30. Cooking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my friends, I may have utterly failed at the "30 days" part of the challenge, but alas, chapter 30 is finally here. This chapter also serves as an epilogue, set after the Family Dinner part of Not Just Biology. Since Sherlock finds out about Mystrade in that fic and I mentioned at the beginning this was a prequel there's no need for a big revelation chapter, but I didn't want to be too disappointing so I hope this makes up for it a little! This fic was really started because there were NJB readers who seemed to really like the Mystrade parts of the story...I didn't expect so many new readers to join in!

_Two and a half years later_

Greg came downstairs one Saturday morning to find Mycroft passed out on the sofa. He was wearing the same clothes from last night’s dinner party, though his pink collared shirt was now wrinkled with the top three buttons undone. His tie was discarded to the floor, one hand was thrown lazily over his stomach, and Greg hadn’t seen his boyfriend this relaxed in ages. He almost felt bad to disturb him, but he couldn’t resist kneeling down and placing a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s lips.

“What?” Mycroft complained as his eyes fluttered open.

“It’s morning, love,” Greg replied. “You slept until ten.”

“Ten?”

Mycroft shot up and looked around, confused and disoriented.

“I’ve never seen you sleep in, ever,” Greg teased.

He settled down next to his lover on the sofa and planted another sweet kiss to his lips to help wake him up.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Mycroft admitted with a sigh. “I kept thinking of Sherlock and I, as kids. I had this dream, about the day my mother died. I just feel _awful_.”

“About what?” Greg asked quietly as he ran his hand through Mycroft’s auburn hair.

Their eyes met, and he stiffened when he saw that Mycroft really was beating himself up.

“I feel awful about lying to him. I told him about us last night, after dinner.”

The world slowed to a stop. His heart was skipping beats, his body felt numb. After years of living in secret his entire life was just thrown out there, without…without Mycroft even asking his permission! But clearly, that wasn’t important right now.

“What did he say?” Greg asked. “How did you tell him? What does he think?”

“I don’t know what he thinks,” Mycroft said. He let out a long breath as he leaned into Greg’s chest. “He ran out of the room. I think it really hurt him. I don’t know why I never thought he wouldn’t care.”

“Well we never thought he’d end up so…human,” Greg pointed out as he placed an arm around his shoulders. “He found John and…maybe he’s starting to understand all this romance stuff.”

Mycroft barked with laughter.

“For over two years he thought you had a girlfriend,” he said. “I’m not sure what hurt him more, that I hid that I was gay, or that I hid that I was in a relationship with _you_. I thought I was protecting him, protecting you, by keeping this secret. Now it just feels foolish.”

“Mycroft, look at me,” he forced his lover to turned to him and placed his hands on his cheeks. “What do you think would have happened if you told your brother about us for the start?”

His boyfriend’s eyes darted away as he admitted:

“He would have hated me.”

“Yes,” Greg agreed. “You two were still barely talking. Sherlock barely trusted me. He was in a bad place, Mye, and it took a long time for him to move on. We might have pushed him away even more. He's grown since then, and he'll come around."

He sealed his promise with a kiss, and though he was tempted to take the kiss to the next level his stomach grumbled, reminded him he hadn't eaten yet.

“Why don’t you go shower, and I’ll cook you breakfast,” Greg offered. Mycroft hesitated to leave the couch, and Greg had to pull him to his feet. He kissed him a third time and promised: “It will be okay.”

Mycroft simply nodded as he slipped away toward the staircase leading upstairs. The house had changed little since he moved in a year ago, but that was fine by him. To Greg this was _home_ , and even if his only personal touch was the clothes hanging in the closet that was fine with him. As he wandered into their kitchen, taking in how impeccably clean it was after their fiasco of a family dinner the night before, and he could just picture Mycroft obsessively cleaning just to avoid going to sleep.

He flipped on the lights and let the stove heat up while he got out a carton of eggs. Though he had done this hundreds of times before in this house this time Greg stopped and really took in what was happening.

_This is our home now, and people know that now._

Suddenly a pair of footsteps scattered into the kitchen before coming to an abrupt halt. Greg swirled around, spatula in hand, and froze when he came face to face with Sherlock Holmes. His consulting detective stopped dead in his tracks, his face ghostly pale. For a moment Greg considered that this was Sherlock’s home to- his childhood home, and he had spent years being fed breakfast in this kitchen.

“John forgot his mobile,” Sherlock explained, all in one breath. His eyes dashed to the kitchen table, where sure enough the good doctor’s phone lay. “I’ll just grab it."

He crossed over to the table in three long strides, but Greg grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Can we talk?” Greg asked. But his colleague, his mate, his former flatmate, wouldn’t answer. He looked like he didn’t even want to give him the time of day, and for the first time Greg worried that maybe Mycroft was right. And he couldn’t think of one thing to justify it, so instead he offered: “Would you like some eggs?”

Sherlock shrugged, and from experience Greg knew that was Sherlockian code for _yes, I’m starving_. The younger Holmes brother sank into a seat at the table, remaining perfectly still and quiet as Greg cooked breakfast. He made some toast, started a pot of coffee, and when everything was ready fifteen minutes later he found himself face to face with Sherlock once again.

“Sherlock,” he finally announced, dropping his fork. “This doesn’t change things between you and I. Professionally, I mean. And I didn’t let you start working for me because of Mycroft, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Finally the consulting detective looked up at him, and when their eyes finally met he was surprised to see that Sherlock looked _furious._ Really, truly, furious.

“Did Mycroft tell you-"

“No!” Greg threw his hands up in defense. “No, I just wanted to make sure you knew it wasn’t like that. I love your brother, Sherlock, and it has nothing to do with you. No offense. Mycroft is a good man, and he’s spent most of his life taking care of other people. These past two years it’s like…it’s like he’s a new person. He deserves that kind of happiness.”

Sherlock slammed his fist against the table and leapt up, knocking over his cup of coffee as he did. Greg rescued his plate of food just in time as the coffee spilled everywhere, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice or care.

“I’ve never once said he doesn’t deserve to be happy!” He spat. “This isn’t about that, this is about both of you lying to me for two and a half years! I mean, I can understand Mycroft- it’s not like he wanted me in his life anyway back then- but _you_?”

Jumping up, Greg’s hands curled into fists, and all those urges to hit Sherlock from over the years were dangerously close to surface.

“That’s not fair and you know it!” Greg shot. “He didn’t want _you_ in his life? _You_ ran away, Sherlock! You left, and you have no idea how much that hurt him. He has spent most of his life looking after you, and maybe he didn’t want to tell you about us because maybe he wanted something that was _his_! Maybe he was afraid you would act like this.”

Arms crossed, Sherlock turned away from him to stare out the kitchen window into his old garden. Greg let out a long sighed and tried to pull himself together. Carefully, he placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and was grateful when the younger man didn’t brush it away.

“There are a lot of reasons we’ve been keeping this a secret,” Greg admitted quietly. “A big reason is of course his job. It’s not an excuse, but him being in love with me really is a, well, security risk. A liability. There’s also my job. Not to mention, for most of the time, we were both just…afraid. Honestly, Sherlock, we didn’t know _what_ people would think. We didn’t know what you would think. It just seemed better to keep quiet. It’s been hard, though, very hard.”

“Two and a half years,” Sherlock breathed. He couldn’t be sure if the comment was because he was impressed or pissed. At last he turned to back to him, like he was really trying to understand. “Do you really like him?”

Greg nodded and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, I do,” he replied.

“And you take care of him?” Sherlock challenged.

“I’d like to think so,” Greg said, grinning like an idiot. “I mean, he’s Mycroft Holmes, but at the end of the day everyone needs someone to be there for him.”

This time Sherlock nodded and confessed:

“I've never thought of Mycroft as…as someone who cared about that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, well to be honest neither have I,” he patted Sherlock’s back, “and I have never thought you were either.”

His consultant offered him a shrug, and Greg felt bad, knowing this was something he didn’t feel comfortable talking about.

“Yeah, well John’s different.”

“Mycroft’s different too. He means a lot to me, Sherlock, and so do you. I don’t expect you to forgive us right away, but I hope that someday, you’ll accept us.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. All the colour drained from his face once again, and Greg decided it was time to let it go from now.

“Gregory, if you don’t mind after breakfast I’ll just be-“

Both of them jumped as Mycroft suddenly appeared in the doorway. They turned toward him and Sherlock looked like he might be sick at the sight of seeing his brother in his dressing gown. Mycroft actually blushed, and Greg wanted to melt to the floor.

“John left his mobile,” Sherlock blurted.

But Mycroft’s eyes narrowed in on the extra plate of eggs and toast, and Greg explained:

“He looked hungry so I fed him.”

“I was just going,” Sherlock whispered.

He grabbed John’s phone and pushed past both of them. When Mycroft didn’t stop him Greg glared at him; he couldn’t help it. Why wasn’t he doing anything?

“You aren’t going to say anything to him?” Greg demanded.

“What is there to say?” Mycroft said with a sigh.

He rubbed his hands over his tired eyes, and Greg realised he really wasn’t exaggerating about his trouble sleeping.

“I’ve got to give him time,” Mycroft explained. He kissed Greg on the top of his head. “I can’t expect him to be okay with this in a day.”

Mycroft trudged over to the table and began finishing the food Sherlock didn’t even touch. Greg could only watch him and wonder what was going on in his head.

“What were you saying about after breakfast?” Greg asked.

His boyfriend let out another sigh and rest his head in his hand. Greg had never seen him look so…lost. So defeated.

“I think I might have a bit of a lie-in.”

Even as Mycroft said it his face scrunched up, like he was ashamed to want something as pedestrian as a lie-in. He wanted so badly to tease him endlessly about it, but he knew if Mycroft Holmes wanted to sleep in then Greg knew he must be upset.

“Look at me.”

He wasn’t going to let Mycroft off the hook that easily. His boyfriend turned around enough to give him room to straddle his lap, and Mycroft didn’t protest as he leaned in for a kiss on the lips.

“I’m not mad at you for telling him,” Greg said softly. He ran a finger down Mycroft’s cheek, “and Sherlock’s not mad at you either. I know him, Mye, and he’ll accept it.”

“I hope so.”

Mycroft’s voice broke. Their foreheads rest together, and suddenly Greg no longer had an appetite for breakfast.

“Mind if I join you?” He asked. Mycroft shook his head, and he whispered: “Let’s make this a breakfast in bed.”

Wordlessly, he got to his feet, grabbed their plates, and led Mycroft upstairs. When they got to their bedroom they remained silent as Greg closed the door and sat the plates on the bedside table. The silence was the kind of timid tension that usually past between them right before sex, but he knew now wasn’t the time.

Instead, as they climbed into bed he let Mycroft lay against his chest and simply held him there for a few moments. He ran his fingers through Mycroft’s thinning hair and kissed behind his ear.

“It took years for Sherlock to talk to me after he started the drugs,” Mycroft said, his voice just barely above a whisper. “What if-“

“Don’t,” Greg warned. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s chest and kissed his neck. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. You’re not allowed. I’m proud of you for telling him, and one day…he’ll be proud of you too.”

Mycroft snickered and rolled on his side so he was facing away from him.

“What?” Greg demanded.

“Stop trying to make me feel better,” Mycroft mumbled. “I’m going to sleep.”

Greg blinked.

“It’s almost eleven.”

Mycroft just let out a fake snore, pretending he was already asleep. A sleepy smile fell across Greg’s face, and if he were completely honest, he could do with a nap as well. Instead he spent all morning lying there, with his lover in his arms, thinking about how much his world had changed in the past hour.

_Everyone knows._

He knew he shouldn’t be afraid of that, but he said to Sherlock was completely true- they didn’t know how people would react to seeing them together. And honestly, it worried him. It scared him. For the past couple of years he convinced himself that coming out meant falling in love with Mycroft and dating another man.

That was nothing compared to the idea of talking to Sherlock about this- fuck that- what about talking to his _mum_?

_Oh god._

Suddenly, he understood why Mycroft was so upset. Fear overwhelmed him, but as his body tensed he only gave himself a full moment for anxiety to take over. He turned toward Mycroft and swallowed his nervous away.

After all, he’d face much worse things than talking to his mum, right?

Mycroft let out a small, barely audible, whimper in his sleep and Greg held him closer. The minor government official had gone on another one of his “business trips” over the weekend and came looking pale-faced and scared stiff. Greg didn’t ask, he had stopped asking questions about those trips long ago, but it was a reminder that they had already gotten through so much together. Instead of panicking he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath and mumbled out loud:

“Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if it's because I've never written Mystrade before or because I ended up having a lot going on in February personally, but this fic was a lot harder to write than I thought. I'm worried it comes across that way, so I'd love to get your feedback on this story!
> 
> Thanks SO much for all the lovely comments, the kudos, and to everyone who checked out the story!! I could have never finished this otherwise!!


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